Blackened: The 12th Hunger Games
by paperairline
Summary: They're just kids, but the Hunger Games makes monsters of them all. SYOT.
1. Prologue I: Just Short of Perfection

_Prologue I: Just Short of Perfection_

* * *

 _Lucille Heron, President of Panem._

* * *

President Lucille Cordelia Heron expects nothing short of perfection.

It is most reflective in her appearance. Never will anyone see a wrinkle on her blouse or hair out of place on her head. Despite her aging body, they'll never be silver either. Her straight hair is always the same shade of jet black, the color of a raven's feathers or the blackened night sky. They are never grey and never brown or blonde. They are always black.

Her eyes, the color of sharp icicles dangling from buildings in the dead of winter, are perfectly symmetrical too. Their piercing gaze is deadly accurate, shooting down anyone that dares defy her. They never miss either. Her icy eyes always scare the living hell out of anyone who even looks her way, frightening them right back into their place.

Her skin is nothing short of perfection either. Always, it is as smooth as a baby's bottom and lacks any blemishes that mortal women normally have. But she is not normal. She is the president of Panem, the most powerful person on earth. She is a step down from a goddess, practically immortal and untouchable.

The presidential mansion is always in perfect order as well. President Heron knows that the first step of keeping an orderly mind is to keep an immaculately clean working space. There is never a speck of dust on the floor or a dust bunny in any of the corners. Her desk never has clutter; it is always as neat and organized as her. Along the walls of her office, twelve birdcages sit, exactly the same distance apart from each other. Inside them are twelve red birds, each exactly the same hue. They all look identical like twins split from the same cell.

So when the 10th Annual Hunger Games end in utter disaster, President Heron is furious.

Standing from her desk, she rips open the doors of her office and storms down the hallway, her tall heels clacking angrily against the tile floor. A few avoxes turn her way then shrink back in fear, worried she'll take her anger out on them. However, she has a specific target in mind.

Like a ferocious storm, she enters the gamemaking hall in a blaze of fury. The doors slam open and she walks in, her presence immediately recognized. All the scurrying and nervous gamemakers look up from what they're doing and gaze her way, their eyes wide with terror.

"Where is Nina?" She hisses, her shiny teeth bared like a territorial wolf. Everyone immediately turns toward a short girl with long brown hair and wide eyes, sighing in relief that she wasn't out for them. Not yet, at least.

Nina gasps slightly and staggers toward her. "It's—it's all und—under control, Madame President," she stutters, her nervousness apparent to anyone with eyes or ears.

Narrowing her eyes into small slits, President Heron glares at the girl who now looked like a frightened child. "Is it really?" She asked harshly, her tone sharp as daggers.

Nina nods her head as quickly as she can manage. "Yes! Yes! We were able to save the boy from Six—he—he's in critical condition but he'll live."

"Why are you saving him?" She roars. "He's the one who got us into this mess! Save the career for god's sake! Are you all vapid?"

"N—no ma'am," Nina stutters again, her face as pale as white snow. "T—the career is dead. Raleigh was the only tribute who was salvageable."

Her nostrils flare with anger. This is not what she wants. The games are supposed to be perfect. This is not perfect. The boy—whatever his name is—tried to rob her of the perfection she had spent so much time trying to achieve. His little stunt makes it so there is a possibility that there will be no victors at all, ruining the entire concept of her Hunger Games. All she wants right now is to wring his little neck like she does to her birds. However, she can't. He's a victor, as invincible as her. She'll have to find another way to hurt him.

In the meanwhile, she decides to take all her anger out on the gamemakers. "You're fired!" She screeches loudly, her booming voice echoing off the walls of the room. "All of you! Get out of my sight this second or so help me god I'll kill every last one of you!"

They all scramble to their feet, running in every which direction. She smiles as she watches the chaos she created. They aren't perfect. They were the ones who ruined her games. They, like her games, were flawed. But she'll make them right again. She'll find someone who will see her vision of flawlessness and make sure that this horrible atrocity never happens again.

For her, perfection is the only option. There is no other way.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello, and welcome to my second SYOT, Blackened! If you didn't read Crimson this prologue will probably make no sense to you, but that's fine, I welcome you to read and submit to this story either way. You all have no idea how excited I am to get this show on the road, and after Crimson, I hope you all are excited too!_

 _So please, come and submit! Submissions will be open until early/mid march, depending on how many I get before then. It will be a max of two per person, for now._

 _The form will be below or on my profile, and please, PM me all submissions._

* * *

 _Name:_

 _Age:_

 _Gender/Pronouns:_

 _District (And backups, if you'd like):_

 _Sexuality:_

 _Appearance:_

 _Personality (At least a paragraph):_

 _Backstory (At least a paragraph):_

 _Family/Friends:_

 _Reaped or Volunteered?:_

 _Reason for Volunteering/Reaction to Reaping:_

 _Chariot Outfit/Interview Outfit:_

 _Interview Angle (if they have one):_

 _What Do They Do In Training?:_

 _What Do They Do In Private Sessions?:_

 _Suggested Training Score:_

 _Games Strategy:_

 _Allies? If so, with whom (Generally. Ex: careers, younger tributes, strong outliers, district partner):_

 _Token (optional):_

 _Quote:_

 _Anything else?:_

 _paper :)_


	2. Prologue II: Better Feared Than Loved

_Prologue II: Better Feared than Loved_

* * *

 _Sicarius Valens, Head Gamemaker._

* * *

The first thing he clearly remembers is from when he was three years old.

His hair is still blonde, and it blows lightly in the midsummer breeze. His mother is still alive and is tending to their small garden on the side of their house with its deep green shutters and bright yellow exterior.

He sits on the raised rim between the sidewalk and the street, twiddling his pudgy thumbs in boredom. All the other kids in the neighborhood have toys, but his father refuses to buy him any. He claims they are a waste of money. He longs for something to hold in his hands, a plastic action figure or a miniature red firetruck, but for now, his thumbs will have to do.

Sicarius looks down. Below his feet, a thousand black ants move to a steady rhythm almost as if they are synced robots marching into battle. He watches them with whatever level of interest a three-year-old can possess, getting bored of their mundane march after a few moments.

So, he decides to make it more interesting. Lowering his hand onto the hot pavement, he scoops up one of the larger black ants and holds it in his pale palm. The small insect seems to not see a difference, continuing to walk at the same pace as it did before. Sicarius laughs as its legs gently tickle his skin.

Then, with a hard tug, he pulls one of the ant's legs off, laughing louder. The ant continues to walk in a circle around his hand, a bit slowed down now. It staggers a little, losing the steady perfection its walk once had. Sicarius only laughs harder, twirling the tiny leg between his fingers. It was fun to watch the ant struggle.

He jerks at another of the ant's legs, tearing it off of its body. Now the ant can now longer walk, squirming around in place.

"Fun!" Three-year-old Sicarius exclaims, watching the ant stumble around in pain. He yanks off a third leg, then another. The ant continues to twitch and wriggle in his palm.

Soon, there are no more legs to pull off. A pile of six thin black strands sits in his opposite hand, while the ant's stagnant torso lays in the other. He frowns. The ant is no longer moving. The fun game was over.

Picking up another ant, he starts the same cycle again, tearing off legs until the ant can no longer move. He's lost in a fit of giggles, so much so that he doesn't hear his mother's footsteps echoing behind him.

"Sicarius!" She yelps, lifting him off of the ground by the collar of his shirt. "No!"

He furrows his brow in confusion. _What was wrong?_ He is just having fun.

"Don't do that to the ants!" She chides. "They never did anything bad to you! You should never hurt something that hasn't hurt you."

He nods his head like he agrees but secretly thinks to himself that that was the most fun he had in a while. It's far more fun than any toy car or doll that money could buy.

* * *

His love for watching others suffer only increases as the years fly by. First, his targets were measly ants, no bigger than his tiny nails. Next, they're grasshoppers and eight-eyed spiders, and when he turns eleven, his father buys him a gun and his targets turn into bigger things. Birds, squirrels, rabbits, deer. Anything in the woods is fair game.

"If you can, shoot them right in the chest," his father instructs.

"Why?" Sicarius asks, narrowing his dark brown eyes at the gun in his hands.

"It's the most humane way to do it," his dad responds. "You don't want the animals to be in pain before they die. That's not the point of hunting."

Once again, he doesn't listen. He lets his father's words go in one ear and out the other. Instead, he always makes sure to shoot his targets in the legs so they feel the pain first. His father just assumes he's a lousy shot, but he just pretends like he is. When he's practicing on non-living targets, he always hits his mark dead on. He just likes to watch the animals suffer; it brings a smile to his normally dull face.

At grade school he's the bully; he pushes the scrawny nerds to the ground and picks fights every chance he gets. He loses sometimes, but it's worth it if he can give his opponent a black eye and see them the next day as their face twists around in a painful agony. His classmates call him sick and mad, but he prefers the term frightening. After time he earns himself a reputation, and people look at the floor when he walks by in the hallway to avoid his terrifying gaze. They're scared, but it's what he likes. Sicarius knows that it's better to be feared than loved.

Then, when Sicarius is out of school and working in the dark and confined mines of District Two, war breaks out. He hears it first when he's deep underground, hitting his pickaxe against the hard stone walls. The bombs fall and he quickly forgoes his job and signs up for the Capitol's army in the blink of an eye. His family is proud of him—they still think there is some humanity left in him and he's doing this because he thinks it's right, but really, he just wants to shoot the one thing he's never been able to hunt before: people.

He quickly rises through the ranks of the military and is known as "Two-Shot Sica." _Why?_ He shoots his enemies once in the leg, then once right in the heart. To him, there is no difference between bugs, squirrels, deer and humans. He kills them all the same. One shot in the leg, one shot in the heart. This way, the pain of his targets and the joy he gets from watching them suffer are maximized.

Sicarius has always striven to hunt bigger targets, so when he hears that President Heron is looking for a new head gamemaker to lead her pageant of suffering, he knows this opportunity is too good to pass up.

Children are the only thing he has left to kill, and if the past is any indicator of the future, he's going to make sure they won't die easy.

* * *

 _A/N: Well, not my best work, but I wanted to get something out soon since I was on vacation the past week. This is just a little look at the head gamemaker for this year's games, and know that this takes place an entire year and a half before Blackened begins so he'll have some experience with the 11th games, and I'm skipping it because Mags canonically was the victor. That means more experience for Sicarius and more hell for your tributes. Hehe._

 _Anyway, submissions for this story will be open until (drumroll please!)... March 4th! That gives you a week and a half to send in whatever you've got, and if you haven't submitted, please do! The form is on my profile and although it may look like there are a lot of submissions already, a decent amount of people have submitted multiple tributes so there are still a number of spots that are open-ish. PM for more details. Also, thanks to everyone who has already submitted. They have been AMAZING so far._

 _The next few weeks are a bit hectic for me, so don't expect anything too soon. I'm trying to make a blog although my web design skills are terrible, so it's probably not going to happen. I hope though. Next time I see you we'll have the tribute list and the first intros!_

 _Much Love,_

 _paper :)_


	3. District One: Make Me Golden

_District One: Make Me Golden_

* * *

 _Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District One Female._

* * *

It's hard to be invisible in District One.

Except, she is.

Here, everything is about looks. It's a competition to see who can have the prettiest body, the nicest clothes, the fullest lips, or the shiniest jewelry. The people who possess these are looked up upon like shining stars, worshiped like immortal gods. The people who lack these things receive attention too, but not the good kind. They are trash in the eyes of everyone else, scumbags who don't belong in the ranks of One. Everything about one's appearance is noticed, even the smallest details. Bad or good.

Even the giant houses beg for recognition. They face off across the street in a trivial contest to see who can have the largest square footage, the cleanest cut lawn, the shiniest windows, the most expensive car. They don't need to have shrubbery shaped like animals, trimmed biweekly by the poor gardener with a bad back and sharp scissors. But they do. The owners of the mansions want people to notice them. When people walk by, they yearn for them to stop and stare, their jaws dropping in awe at the miraculous sight before them.

No one has ever stopped and stared in awe at her. Well, at least not for a very long time. It's been years. She wishes with all her might that they would just look. Like everything else around her, Valentine craves to be noticed. By her parents. By her friends. By her peers. By _anyone._

She stares into the mirror, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her face is slathered with coats of makeup; maybe it'll finally make her appealing to the boys. It's not that she's ugly, she has smooth chocolate skin and a smile that lights up the room, but she's not pretty either. Her eyes are a bit too far apart, and she's a bit short for a girl her age. Despite being Hispanic in a town full of whites, she's average looking enough not to get noticed, which she despises. With makeup, she's at least a little prettier, a little above average. Maybe enough to get someone's head to turn her way tonight.

Peeling herself away from the reflective glass, she flings open her bedroom door and flies down the stairs. Her heels clack against the dark mahogany wood, alerting her mother sitting in the room below. She looks up from her book, her eyes resting on her daughter. Then, they look back at the book again with disinterest, glazed over once again.

"Mom, don't I look nice?" Valentine asks, fishing for a compliment or a critique; she's not picky. As long as her mother just notices her, she's happy.

Her mother shrugs and mumbles a few words quietly. "You look fine."

Valentine's smile fades slightly. "Well, don't you want to know where I'm going dressed up like this?"

Her mother doesn't answer, lost in the pages of her book once again. Valentine expects this though. It's been the case ever since her older sister died five years ago, murdered in a dark alley on the slummy side of town. Her killer was never found. Ever since then, Valentine's parents blocked their remaining daughter out of their lives, ignoring her and paying as little attention to her as possible. They can't lose someone they forget about. That's why they pretend like she doesn't exist half the time.

Sighing, she makes her way across the room, grabbing a light pink jacket hanging from the rack. She slips it on, gazing at her mother with longing eyes. She wants her to look up more than anything. Valentine wants her to look up and see her for she is really is. Her daughter. Her last remaining daughter who she should treasure more than anything else.

But she doesn't.

Her nose stays nuzzled in the flimsy pages of her book, her eyes never leaving the black print. Valentine looks away. She should have known better than to hope. She's been hoping for five long years, and every time her mother's face stays hidden behind the pages of that goddamn book. She never looks up, and she never will.

"Mom," she blurts out. "I got picked to go to the Hunger Games by the academy."

Her mother doesn't seem to hear her, flipping to the next page of the book as if she never said anything. All she wants is a reaction, but she doesn't get one. She'll just have to push harder.

"I worked really hard mom," she continues. "Really hard. I trained every day and stayed after everyone left so I could go. We had the final qualifying rounds today and I won by a lot. The giant girl with those big muscles didn't even know what happened, that's how fast I beat her mom. Isn't that great? Aren't you proud of me?"

 _Say something. Anything._

In the room, there is only silence, the quick beating of Valentine's heart the sole thing ringing in her ears.

 _You don't have to be proud. Just tell me that you care._

Her mother flips another page.

Tears well in the young girl's eyes, sparkling in the bright lights of the room. She turns away sharply, her long hair following her like a shadow as her head twists around. Her dark mascara is beginning to run. The hours of work she put into it has been ruined in a matter of seconds.

 _If she dies, would her parents even realize it?_

Extending her arm outward, she lets her calloused hand wrap around the cold metal door handle. It sends a shiver up her spine, freezing her muscles for a split second. She takes one last look at her mother before twisting open the door and walking out into the brisk night air. On the way out, she slams it behind her. The whole house shakes.

Maybe that will get her mother to notice.

The night is frigid and icy, a sign that winter is just around the corner. She pulls her jacket tighter against her skin, her white teeth chattering in her mouth. The house of the party isn't too far away, but in the cold, it feels farther. She quickens her pace.

Within a few minutes, she's on the doorstep of a massive mansion with loud music blaring inside. Through the windows, she can see tall figures dancing on tables and groups mingling in the corners of the rooms. She knocks on the door and it opens, revealing a tall boy with bleach blonde hair and a red beer can in his hand.

"Hey, Val!" He exclaims, flashing her a toothy smile. "Beer's in the kitchen, the wine's in the cooler. Have fun!"

She nods her head mutely, heading straight to the kitchen. Mainly, she parties for attention from her parents and peers, but she also does it for the alcohol and relief that it brings. For one night, she can forget all the stress that sometimes feels like it's going to all bubble over and swallow her alive. When she drinks, she feels relaxed and at peace, a feeling she can't obtain anywhere else.

But when she wakes up in the morning, it all comes rushing back, worse than ever. However, Valentine isn't one to run away from her fears. When she wants something, she always, always gets it. She's going to work hard to win the games, and then, her parents will have no choice but to notice her.

She may be invisible now, but in a few weeks, the whole world will know her name.

* * *

 _Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Male._

* * *

His friends call him Golden Boy.

He's tall and handsome, with an athletic frame and long legs. His jaw is sharp and defined, and he has greyish blue eyes with a cold glint inside, which makes him look slightly mysterious. The girls have always had crushes on him since he could remember, swooning over pictures of him in the yearbook and doodling his name down in big loopy letters on their papers in school. He's caught the unwanted attention of a few boys too, but they don't interest him.

He's also a great student and a phenomenal athlete, playing multiple varsity sports before being recommended to try training at the academy. Like everything else in his life, he's excelled at that too, coming up onto in most fights and quickly rising through the ranks to become one of the top candidates to lead District One to its second victory in the 12th Hunger Games.

In addition, his family couldn't love him more. He had two supportive parents and a trio of younger siblings who adored him with everything they had. "Clay! Clay!" They shout every time he entered the house, enveloping him in three giant hugs every time they saw him.

To the world, it looks like he has a perfect life. Only, Clay Wolfe knows perfection is an illusion, and even the sturdiest states have cracks.

The scar on his right cheek is one of the casualties of his crack, almost invisible unless looked at very closely. No one would be able to notice it unless they were directly looking for it, and no one looks for Golden Boy's flaws.

"Next up in the ring, Clay Wolfe, and Silver Vasquez!"

Clay nods his head mutely, standing to his feet. A shiver goes down his spine as he locks eyes with his opponent, a tall boy who towered above all the other trainees, including him, by almost an entire head. He was the one who gave Clay the scar almost two years ago. Clay wonders if he remembers that day. He sure does.

Silver grins wickedly, confirming Clay's suspicions. However, he can't let it get to him. He takes a deep breath in, trying to calm himself down. If he has any chance of winning this fight, he needs to remain calm and not let what happened last time happened again.

Clay returns the boy's wicked grin, sticking his tongue out in the air to taunt him.

Silver laughs and grabs a large broadsword of the rack.

"You want a repeat of last time, Golden Boy? Maybe I should change my name to Golden Boy instead because once I fight you, you won't look golden anymore," Silver jests.

Narrowing his eyes, Clay shakes his head. Behind him, some people in the class snicker. He's nervous, but he can't show it. He needs to remain as calm as the ocean on a windless day.

"Nah, Silver suits you," he replies bitterly, faking his confidence. "Because you're going to come in second in this fight anyway."

The class laughs again, and the trainer quickly silences them. "That's enough, work it out in the ring you two!"

Scanning the weapons rack, Clay finds his signature weapon, a long sword with the word victor carved into the bottom. He leans forward, grabbing it off the rack. Then, the two boys head into the fighting ring, eyeing each other like vultures ready to devour their prey.

 _Stay calm,_ he tells himself. _Stay calm._

"Alright boys, you know the rules," the trainer exclaims. "No cheating, and no excessive hurting of the other. Once I say the fight is over, it's _over_."

Silver smirks. _It's over when I say it's over,_ the boy mouths.

 _Not if I can help it,_ Clay mouths in reply.

 _I'd like to see you try, Golden Boy._

 _You don't want to see me try,_ he grins back.

Adrenaline is pumping through his blood, racing through his body. He feels his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

 _Crap._

His eyes widen, but so far, everything is fine. He just needs to stay calm.

"On the count of three, you may begin!" The trainer announces. "One, two, three!"

Silver wastes no time. As soon as the word "three" is out of the trainer's mouth, he is flying through the air, the blade of his sword angled right at Clay's neck. Although the sword is dulled, Clay knew the blow could still leave a mark. He ducks out of the way just in time, leaving Silver to stagger to the ground and try to regain his footing.

While Silver is recovering, Clay swipes at the boy's body, the blade of his sword cutting through the skin on his back. Silver howls in pain, jolting upward and slashing his sword at Clay in response. It cuts against Clay's hand, drawing fresh, crimson blood.

Clay's heart is pumping faster, but he has no time to calm down, for Silver is lunging at him again. Clay raises his sword in the air and the two weapons clash against each other, making a loud clinging noise. Silver grunts, pushing down harder. Clay does the same, pushing up on his weapon.

Then, he begins to feel it. _Crap._

"What is it, Golden Boy?" Silver teases, pushing down harder. "You scared?"

"Anything but," Clay hisses back.

However, his eyelids are beginning to droop, lowering themselves slowly over his eyes. He growls, forcing them back open. Silver swings at Clay's side and Clay blocks the blow, his heart racing even more now.

It's happening, and he all he can do is watch until everything spirals into chaos.

His muscles begin to relax, and all of a sudden, he feels extremely sleepy. Silver swings his sword at him again, and this time, Clay isn't fast enough. The sword hits him in his side, the sheer force of it knocking him to the ground. He winces and tries to stand to his feet, but he isn't fast enough. His tired muscles ground him to the floor as Silver presses his shoe down on his chest.

 _Why does the floor suddenly feel so much like a bed?_

Silver points the blade of his sword right toward the middle of his neck, the sharp point just barely resting on his skin. Clay gulps, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but all of a sudden, he releases he has lost control of the muscles in his legs. Everything in him just wants to lie here and let himself fall asleep, but he can't let anyone know. As far as they're concerned, he is still the golden boy with no flaws.

He'll tell them he was just tired, and that he didn't sleep much last night. He won't tell them the truth. He'll never tell anybody the truth that he has narcolepsy and that he's not as golden he seems.

"Silver is the winner!"

Yeah, that sounds about right.

* * *

 _A/N: I forgot how much I hated writing intros, and I have eleven more to write, so... yay?_

 _I'm also impatient and can never follow deadlines so I'm posting the tribute list today. I've had the list pretty much finalized for like a week anyway, I doubt anything was really going to change._

 _I hope you liked these two, as always career spots were tough to get into (I got seven submissions for D1/D2 females, holy cow!) so if you don't see your tribute written here or listed below, don't feel bad. They were hella competitive, and I really just based my decisions on what I can do with them down the road in the capitol and in the arena. Also, a lot of you didn't get your preferred district, and I tried to move them into backup districts but sometimes I just had to move them into a district you didn't even request, but don't worry, I've thought it out and they'll all turn out alright. PM me if you have anything you want to change. So, without furtherado, here is the tribute list for Blackened!_

* * *

 _District One Male: Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Female: Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District Two Male: Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Female: Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Three Male: Skylar Baxton, 17._

 _District Three Female: Freyja Abbott, 18._

 _District Four Male: Archer Caspian, 17._

 _District Four Female: Coraline Seaton, 17._

 _District Five Male: Solomon Nyguen, 17._

 _District Five Female: Luna Nyguen, 17._

 _District Six Male: Tyrell Taiko, 15._

 _District Six Female: Winnifred Ellison, 16._

 _District Seven Male: Bruno Muller, 13._

 _District Seven Female: Terra Macintosh, 18._

 _District Eight Male: Gareth Emory, 18._

 _District Eight Female: Beckett Locke, 14._

 _District Nine Male: Lennox Orseni, 15._

 _District Nine Female: Eliora Abraham, 16._

 _District Ten Male: Braxton Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Female: Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Eleven Male: Takei Sadeh, 17._

 _District Eleven Female: Manisha Rollins, 15._

 _District Twelve Male: Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Female: North Brier, 14._

* * *

 _Like I said, I had so many amazing submissions, and not everyone (even the really good ones) could get in. I based my decisions mostly off plots I'm beginning to plan for the future, so if your tribute didn't get in, don't take it too hard._

 _Expect the D2 intros in a week or two._

 _paper :)_


	4. District Two: Blood-Laced Dreams

_District Two: Blood-Laced Dreams_

 _Trigger warning: Mentions of mental and physical abuse in the second section and homophobia in both._

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

She still remembers the first time she saw the games.

She's six years old, a little girl no taller than three-and-a half-feet. Her older brother Alfie and she are wrestling in the living room when their parents usher them out, claiming they are going to watch one of their "adult" television shows that they are not allowed to see. Like the obedient little girl she is, she quickly files out, but her brother has another idea.

"I want to see what they're watching," Alfie decides, flashing her a wicked and mischievous grin.

Her eyes widen. "No, mommy said we can't!"

Her brother laughs. "Well, _you_ can't. The Hunger Games aren't meant for _six_ -year-olds. But _seven_ -year-olds are old enough to watch."

Hana folds her arms and gives her brother a giant frown. She is just as good as him, even if she is an entire year younger than him. "Fine, if you are watching it, I'm watching it!"

Her brother agrees, and as quietly as possible, the two of them tip-toe silently to the door of the living room. Alfie tips it open ever so silently so that they can see a glimpse of the shiny television without alerting their parents of their presence. Leaning against the wooden door frame, Hana watches with wide, curious brown eyes.

The bloodshed she sees should scare her, but instead, it only fascinates her and draws her further into the brutal slaughter that the Capitol craves so badly.

" _Woah_ ," she murmurs, awestruck.

" _Woah_ ," her brother echoes back, equally as hypnotized by the sparkling crimson blood spilling all across the glowing screen.

They watch every night while their parents think they are in bed sleeping. Every night, she is lured further and further into the games, enchanted by the beautiful red world the Capitol as created. Her brother likes it, but not in the same way as her. She's in love.

Two weeks later, a victor is crowned in gold and celebrated by all of Panem. She points to the television, her eyes fixated to its surface like glue.

"Me," she whispers, holding her head high in the air. "That's going to be me."

Twelve years later, Hana Marko still dreams of President Heron placing the golden crown upon her head and proclaiming her as the victor of the Twelfth Annual Hunger Games.

"Hana, you don't have to do this," her girlfriend Shuri murmurs, stroking her delicate fingers through Hana's long black hair. They're sitting on the couch in her living room, watching old reruns of the games that Hana recorded. She's watched them countless times, but the addictive effect they first had on her never wears off. Each time she watches it is as miraculous as the last for her, never growing old no matter if it is the first time or the hundredth time she's watching Alaric get crushed by a million boulders.

"It's dangerous," Shuri continues, snapping Hana out of her mindless fantasy. "You could die. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The young girl leans back, reclining into the soft cushion. "You won't have to know because you won't have to live without me. I'm going to win."

Shuri frowns, her normally bright and pretty face contorting into a sad expression. She turns away sharply. Hana can't help but feel a twinge of sadness as well. Seeing her girlfriend upset makes her upset. She raises her hand and strokes Shuri's cheek affectionately, pulling her face back toward her.

"Look," she mutters, giving her a weak smile. "It's been my dream ever since I was a little girl. I'm not giving it up, even if you're scared. I know I could die, but I need to do this. For me, for Alfie, and for you. Even if I lose, the compensation the academy sends would give you a better life. You wouldn't have to work breaking your back in the mines anymore."

Shuri blinks, her deep brown eyes looking right into Hana's own. The screams of tributes from the Eighth Hunger Games play in the background as the boy from District Three gets decapitated by the tall and vicious girl from Six. _Perfect timing._ Hana quickly grabs the remote, clicking the television off with a press of the button.

"I'd rather have a broken back and you than nothing at all," her girlfriend whispers, blinking her wide puppy dog eyes slowly. Hana gulps, instantly feeling guilty. Shuri just has a way of doing that to her. Maybe she should stay here. The games may have been her first love, but right now, the wide-eyed and beautiful girl in front of her is her everything. She can't give that up for one-in-twenty-four odds.

But it's her dream. _Dreams are worth those odds, right?_

She doesn't know.

Extending her arm outward, she runs her calloused and bruised hand from training long days and nights along Shuri's soft cheek. For a moment, everything around her seems to fade away and it's only her and Shuri. The short girl's eyes stare deep into her own, and for a minute, it feels like they are on two different sides of an invisible glass, in the same room but in two totally different universes.

She wishes Shuri wasn't so beautiful. Maybe that'd make this choice easier.

Hana leans forward, placing her hands right in the empty space between Shuri's bent arms and the side of her chest. The girl raises her head and closes her eyes, and the next thing Hana knows, her mouth is on Shuri's pale pink lips the color of rose petals. Shuri's running her fingers through Hana's long hair again and it's just them, the world a background to their love.

Then, the door slams open and everything comes racing back.

"Hana!" A shrill voice yells, echoing off the walls of the small living room. "I thought I told you I never wanted to see this girl in my house ever again!"

Hana sighs deeply, pulling herself away from Shuri. She twists her head around to face the man who just entered to room.

"Hi-ya Dad," she chortles sarcastically, as happy to see him as he was to see her on top of Shuri.

"Hi-ya," he mocks bitterly, placing his hands on his hips. Shuri raises herself into a sitting position on the couch, blinking her eyes like she just woke up from a dream. In a way, they have. They are back in reality now, the world no longer just them two and nothing else.

"I—I—I was just leaving," Shuri stutters, standing and brushing a few specks of dust of her shirt in an effort to quickly compose herself.

Her dad nods gruffly. "Yeah you were," he responds as icily as the frigid winter.

Shuri turns back to Hana and gives her palm a squeeze. Their fingers interlace, tangled in each other. Hana wishes she'd never let go. "Think about it, alright?" Shuri asks before peeling her hand away from Hana and scurrying out the door. Hana nods mutely, watching as she exits with longing eyes. She wishes she could just forget about the games and run off with Shuri.

If only it was that simple. _Why did life have to be so complicated? Why couldn't she just have the games and Shuri, why did it just have to be one or the other? Why did her girlfriend have to be so against them? Couldn't she see that they were great?_

"I told you to stop seeing _that girl_ ," her father growls.

" _That girl_ has a name you know," Hana retorts. "It's Shuri."

"Her name doesn't matter to me. As far as I'm concerned, she's that girl and nothing more. The only thing she will ever be is a distraction from the games and a distraction from the boys you should be liking."

"She's not a distraction!" Hana protested. "She's going to be my future wife and I don't care what you think about her! I love her, and that's all that matters! Alfie would have understood!"

"Well, Alfie isn't here right now!" Her father shouts back, his voice booming like a drum. Hana shutters, but doesn't back down, holding her ground defiantly. Her brother might be dead, but he still supports her, wherever he may be. She doesn't need her dad's support as long as she has his. Alfie always supports her, no matter what.

Her father sighs, taking a deep breath. "I don't like arguing with you, Hana. Why can't you just do what I say?"

"Because what you say isn't right," she spat, holding her chin high. "You may be my dad, but you're not the boss of me. I'm my own person, and I'll love whoever I choose to love!"

Her dad narrowed his eyes at her, and she copied him, narrowing them back. There was no way she was backing down from this fight.

"Fine," her father growls, averting his gaze in defeat. "I'm just happy I'll get compensation for all this nonsense when you win. Maybe the games will straighten you out and make you see what's really best for you."

"Maybe I just won't enter the games then," Hana retorts, though knows what she's saying is nonsense. She's been training her entire life for this and even Shuri can't persuade her to give it all up.

She's going, and nothing will stand in her way from winning and coming back to see her girlfriend again.

* * *

 _Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Male._

* * *

A hard boot in the stomach kicks him awake.

"I said you can't sleep here, street rat!" The large figure in front of him bellows, its arms folded over its chest in an angry stance. Pilate slowly blinks his eyes open, letting them adjust to the bright morning light surrounding him. The shadowy figure slowly becomes a man with furrowed eyebrows and a large frown the size of a mountain. The young boy groans, pulling the newspaper that served as a makeshift blanket closer to his chest. He isn't moving whether the man wants him to or not.

"Listen to me! I said take a hike!" The man yells loudly. Pilate ignores him, closing his eyes again and rolling over onto his side. Yawning, he tries to drift back off to sleep once more.

Then, the hard shoe of the man collides with his stomach. Pilate's eyes jolt open and he coughs violently. The man growls, yanking the young boy's arm upward so that he now stands on his two feet and is facing him. Despite being slightly taller than average, Pilate still feels small in the shadow of the large shopkeeper.

"You can leave yourself, or I'll call the cops and have them do it for you!" He screams. "You're scaring off the customers!"

Pilate growls, jerking his wrist out of the strong man's grip. "Don't touch me," he hisses.

"Three," the man begins to count down, pulling out a silver cell phone in his pocket.

Rolling his eyes, Pilate grabs his guitar in one hand and the wrinkled and dirty newspaper in the other.

"Two," the man continues to count, making Pilate's nose flare. _Why can't this guy just give him a goddamn break?_

"I'm leaving, alright?" Pilate growls, brushing the dirt off his shirt.

"One," the man continues to count, beginning to click the small buttons on his phone.

Pilate scowls, crumbling the newspaper into a small ball and throwing it at the shopkeeper angrily. "Go rot in hell," he spits, stomping away from the storefront. He grips his old guitar angrily, the skin on his hand turning white.

He crosses the street, a few cars stopping short and honking at him. He flips each one of them off as he passes. A few people return the favor, but he doesn't care. It doesn't get to him anymore.

For a Wednesday in late November, the main drag of District Two is unusually busy. Most of the time, the cold mountain air keeps all the people bolted up inside their houses, but for some reason, the sunshine must have brought them all out. He keeps his head tucked low as he passes a happy family walking along, the kids playing tag and laughing gleefully as they weave in between the lampposts and bushes that line the side of the street.

A long time ago that would have been him. One couldn't tell from his dirtied and always glum appearance now, but he used to have a warm bed that was his own and a family who loved him more than anything else in the entire world.

Now they are as dead to him as his once innocent and carefree life.

He doesn't care though. Nothing affects him now. He is as hard as stone and as unbreakable as a rock. The fact that his parents told him he was nothing but a deadbeat because all because he was gay and now pretend like he doesn't exist doesn't bother him at all. No, Pilate Antoni is as uncrackable as a statue. Nothing gets through his impermeable outer shell. Not his parents, not the man who kicked him out of his sleeping spot, and most certainly not Draco Madiera, the embodiment of the devil himself.

 _Ugh._ He felt his nostrils flare just thinking of that pathetic boy's name.

Sighing, Pilate sits down on the icy pavement and takes out his guitar. He has a few hours until training begins, and needs to make some money to buy himself a celebration dinner after he wins the fight tonight. He fishes a small rusted metal tray out of his coat pocket and places it on the sidewalk in front of him.

Taking out his guitar pick, he strums the strings of his guitar slowly. A smooth melody fills his ears, bringing back nostalgic memories of playing in his yard on hot summer nights three years ago, Draco humming along beside him. Those were such good times.

Tears well in his eyes, and he quickly quells them. The strong don't cry. He instantly puts the pick back in his pocket and stands to his feet. He'll get money another way. He doesn't need to play the guitar. Only the weak care about music anyway, and he's strong. The strong don't play the music. Music makes people weak.

Yet, despite how much he wants to, he can't part with his only remaining possession. It reminds him that the old Pilate is still in there somewhere and that the joyous and relaxed boy he once was isn't completely gone yet.

 _No, the old Pilate is dead_ , he tells himself. _It's better this way._ This way, he can't get hurt. Rocks don't shatter like delicate glass does.

He arrives that the academy exactly at noon, the guitar still gripped feverishly in his hand.

"Ugh, I knew something smelled like trash in here," Draco hisses when he enters, his small posse of hooligans trailing after him.

The homeless boy narrows his eyes at his ex-boyfriend, his lips curled into a snarl. "Yeah, it's you," he retorts bitterly.

"Whatever," Draco spits, rolling his eyes as if Pilate just made an immature joke. His friends snicker. "Let's just get this over with."

The two boys make their way over to the mock arena in the center of the academy building. Today is the final battle to determine which one will be chosen to entire the games, and Pilate plans to destroy Draco. After everything that the boy has done to him, Draco doesn't deserve his mercy or kindness. No one does.

They step into the ring, and Pilate runs his dirt-stained fingers along the side of neck where a noticeable scar runs all the way from the top of his temple to his collarbone. It's a constant and visible reminder of the pain that Draco dragged him through. He won't let it happen again.

"Are you ready to get destroyed?" Pilate asks, puffing out his chest to make his already muscular body seem bigger.

Draco scoffs. "You're still nothing without me Pilate," he jeers. "You live on the streets. Your music sucks. When will you learn that? You can't beat me."

A chill runs down Pilate's spine. Draco is doing it again, trying to control him like he was nothing more than a mindless puppet. _Well, he isn't_. He learned his lesson and would never let anyone control him or make him feel like he wasn't even deserving of being treated like a person again.

"I'm twice the man you are."

"Oh yeah?" Draco asks, raising an eyebrow and taunting him to come closer. "Prove it."

Pilate growls, surging forward. His massive body flies toward Draco, catching him off guard and pummelling him to the ground. The gong that officially starts the match hasn't even rung yet, but the trainee doesn't care. _Draco didn't play fair when he threw the vase at his head and called him a worthless piece of trash, so why should he?_

His opponent doesn't know what's happening, spitting and desperately trying to wiggle free. Pilate just punches his face over and over again, the pain increasing each time his hand fist collides with Draco's face. Rage races through his veins like race cars flying around a track. He just punches and punches and punches until he can see nothing but red.

Even when Draco cries out in pain, he doesn't stop. He's not going to stop until every drop of blood that has been drained out of his body is repaid. Even if it kills him and turns him into the violent monster that he has constantly dreaded he will become, he's going to get his revenge on everyone who has ever wronged him. Draco is just the beginning.

* * *

 **A/N** : _I wrote Pilate's section when my house was out of power and it was like 45 degrees inside. It made me colder. Brrr._

 _Also, Hana is of Asian decent, though I wasn't able to fit that in. I hope you liked these two guys, I certainly did! I'm a sucker for careers, and I had a lot of fun writing their chapters. As always, tell me what you think of them, I like to hear your opinion and it helps me plan plots in stuff in the future, I guess. I'm already planning some and let me tell you, it's going to be an exciting ride :)_

 _And since someone asked, the academies are decently established, particularily in One and Two where they have been around for 4/5 years. They are pretty common and ewll known now._

 _Updates should be weekly from now on, but honestly, once I say that something always seems to come up and they aren't. I'm playing a varsity sport again this spring, but I did it last year and still found lots of time to write, so I should be fine again. We'll see though, I have a job now. Point being, just expect an update next weekend or something like that._

 _See you guys in District Three!_

 _paper :)_


	5. District Three: Money is Power

_District Three: Money Is Power_

* * *

 _Freyja Abbott, 18._

 _District Three Female._

* * *

The alarm in her room blares louder than a firetruck.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Groaning tiredly, she pries open her sleepy eyes. Her room is dark save for the luminescent red numbers blinking on the clock that sits on the nightstand right beside her bed. They read 5:00, two hours before the rest of the District gets up.

She inhales deeply, still exhausted. With a swift motion, she brings her hand down on the snooze button. _She just needs five more minutes of sleep then she'll be ready_ , Freyja tells herself, though knows that the five minutes usually turn to ten, then ten to twenty, and soon enough her father is in here yelling at her about being late.

Resting her head back on her pillow, she drifts back off into a mindless sleep. However, five minutes later the alarm is ringing again, and this time she knows she has no choice but to get herself up.

 _Just two more weeks of this. Two more weeks and it won't be an issue anymore. You'll be safe and Dad won't make you do this anymore. You can sleep in like all the normal kids._

Well, as normal as she can be. Being the corrupt mayor's daughter, nothing is really _normal_ , but once her father makes her stop getting up at five every morning to train illegally, she'll be a little _normaler._

Sitting up in her bed, she flings off her covers and places her feet on the warm and fuzzy carpet that lines the floor of her room. She then makes her way over to her dresser and picks out a black tank top and pink running shorts. She doesn't bother to turn on the light, for she knows where everything is. After all, she's been doing this since was twelve, the first age a kid could be reaped at. Then, she ties her curly ginger hair into a ponytail and exits her room.

Silently, she makes her way down the stairs and into her dad's "at-home office" that secretly serves as a training room. He's already there, waiting in the room with crossed arms and a frown plastered on his face.

"You're late," he announces once she closed the door behind her, his tone suggesting that he was upset with her.

"Yeah," Freyja replies nonchalantly, not really seeing a reason to lie or make up an excuse. If there's one thing the young girl is, she's honest. It's quite a weird trait for her to have, considering her parents lie all the time, bribe the peacekeepers to keep quiet about the training her and her father do and steal money from the District for their own private interests. But you know, kids don't always end up like their parents. She doesn't plan to.

Her father's frown grows bigger. "Well next time, don't be."

"Whatever, I like my sleep," Freyja responds, rolling her eyes. Headstrong, that's another thing she is. She doesn't listen to anyone else but herself, which sometimes gets her labeled as inconsiderate and could make her father, who hated the word "no", quite angry.

"You can sleep when you're dead, which could happen if you don't train and get reaped."

She snorts. _Fat chance._ There are thousands of children in the district, _what are the odds it will be her who takes absolutely no tesserae?_ Close to none, practically zero.

"Pick up a spear and let's going," her father continues, "we only have two more weeks until the reaping."

She does as her father tells her to, picking up the spear off the rack and showing him the proper position in which to hold it. He nods his head in approval then she hurls it at the target. It misses the bullseye by a few inches, her throw a bit too strong.

"Try again," her father instructs. She growls, rolling her eyes again; however, she doesn't protest, picking up another spear and hurling it at the target once again.

This time, it hits right in the center of the target. Her father smiles, giving her a congratulatory pat on the back. "Nice one."

They train for another hour, practicing spear throwing and then hand-to-hand combat. After they're done, she showers and eats her breakfast of waffles and real maple syrup straight from the forests of District Seven, a delicacy even for Capitolites. She smiles as the sweet tastes lingers in her mouth and makes her tongue tingle with joy.

After breakfast, she heads up to her room to get ready for the public appearance her dad is having later today at the town square. She used to like going to these as she liked to meet new people, but now she finds herself dreading them even days before. She hates being told what to do, and when her parents make her sit still, smile and look pretty for the cameras, she just takes a deep breath and sucks it up despite the fact that she'd rather be anywhere else in the world, even the Hunger Games.

Well, not really. But at least if she was in the Hunger Games she'd be able to be her own person, not some pretty porcelain doll her parents always tried to make her seem like to the public eye.

Opening her walk-in closet, her bright green eyes scan the numerous hangers holding expensive shirts embroidered with fancy lace and dresses with intricate patterns most district girls could only dream of even seeing. After debating between the pretty turquoise tank with blooming pink and purple flowers and the knee-length yellow dress covered with white lace, she goes with the dress. Then, she accents it with a pair of sparkly dangling earrings and a pearl necklace. Finally, she laters on a layer of makeup and makes her way back downstairs, where her parents are already waiting by the door.

"You look so nice!" Her mother choruses happily, enveloping her in a warm hug.

"Do I have to go?" She asks, pulling herself away from her mother's tight arms. "You're going to win the election this year anyway Daddy. You always do."

Yeah, because it was rigged. However, her father was also the Capitol's lap dog, and if they had anything to do with it, he'd win again. _Why did she need to go if her presence didn't even matter?_

"Yes, you need to go. If you ever want to be mayor like me, you'll need people to like you!"

She frowned. "Even if I go, they'll never know the real me. They'll just think I'm some weird stoic girl who just smiles all the time and says 'vote for my dad!' every time I speak! You think they'll elect that?"

Her mother laughs. "We'll make sure they do, right Ralph?"

"Right," her father responds assuredly, already halfway out the door.

The election isn't the only thing being rigged, though.

* * *

 _Skylar "Sky" Baxter, 17._

 _District Three Male._

* * *

"BlueSky391, we need you up by the hangar bay!" The voice on the other side of his headphones crackles. "The zombies are breaking through the barrier! We need backup!"

Sky nods his head mutely, his eyes intently fixed intently on the glowing television a few feet in front of him. The rest of the room is dark, the long curtains pulled down over the windows and the lights switched off. Thin streams of sun peak in through the space between the curtains and the walls, illuminating the room barely. His younger sister Stella jokes he's like one of the romantic vampires she's read about in the banned magazines her father has snuck her a few times. Only, he's not romantic. He doesn't have the time or energy for a girlfriend anyway, not with all the games he plays and the fan following he has to keep entertained by posting more videos.

"I'll be there in a second!" He responds, yelling back into his microphone. "I'm just finishing off this wave of zombies in the control room. I almost got them all, I just need to-"

 _Bang!_ His onscreen avatar takes a grenade out of his pocket and hurls it at the masses of zombies streaming in through one of the doors. The shell explodes, obliterating everything in its path and sending zombie guts flying everywhere.

"Oh yeah, dude! Nice one!" Hunger_Fan1, the anonymous person whom he is playing with, exclaims. Most of the time, Skylar has no idea who is on the other side of his headphones. He assumes it's some kid in the Capitol who has nothing better to do while he bides his time waiting for the next Hunger Games to start. The XSTATION5, the gaming console needed to play ApocalypseNight, is too expensive for most district kids. Well, not him. But he's not like most district kids.

He was born in the Capitol after all.

"Hurry up!" Hunger_Fan1 yelps. "They're closing in! I don't know how much longer I can stall them!"

"I'll be there in a second! Hold on!"

His avatar glides up a broken set of stairs, shooting zombies as they climb out of broken windows and ajar doors with their wooden barricades broken. Within seconds he sees the gamertag of his teammate blinking a few stories up. He continues to climb the stairs until he is on the same level as Hunger_Fan1, his eyes widening when he sees the mess that his teammate is in.

"Woah, what the hell happened here dude?" He asks, still a bit shocked. It was only wave five after all.

"Just help me!" Hunger_Fan exclaims, falling back to meet him. Together, the two rain down scores of bullets on the pixelated undead creatures. Blood and guts fly everywhere.

"I'm out of ammo!" Hunger_Fan cries out.

"I got you!" He replies confidently. _Just one more minute and they'll be good, and they can go back and get more ammo. Jus-_

Then, the screen flickers black. His headphones go static, the voice on the other end disconnected.

"What the hell Mom?" He growls, contouring his face into a grimace at his mother who is standing right beside the television, the black plug dangling in her hand. "I almost got a new high score!"

His mother frowns back, placing her hands on her hips defiantly. "Well I almost got a full load of laundry that needs doing," she retorts, motioning to the laundry room upstairs.

"But _Mommmmm_ ," he whines, "I was in the middle of a game!"

She rolls her eyes. "Too bad. Go do the laundry before your father gets home. You know how he hates having clutter in the house."

He huffs, folding his arms over his chest and reclining back on the soft couch. He hates doing the laundry or anything that really requires him to expend energy. His mother calls him lazy, but he prefers the word efficient instead. He just doesn't like doing stuff that wasn't necessary for him to do, such as folding the laundry and going to school. Why does he even need an education if his father is the head peacekeeper and is going to give him ample money for the rest of his life? He could definitely support Sky for the rest of his life with the bribes he received from Mayor Abbott alone. Why did Sky need to get a degree so he could work when he never needed to? It just seemed like a waste of time to him. He'd rather be shut up in his dark room playing video games all day than learning useless math formulas and facts about the history of Panem that he won't need to know for anything but a test.

"Do I have to?" He asks, his voice sounding a bit like that of a whiny and spoiled child's.

"Yes," his mother replies swiftly. "You do."

"Fine," he growls, standing to his feet and vehemently throwing his controller onto the floor like an angry child would during a tantrum. "But I won't like it."

His mother rolls her eyes and heads back into the kitchen while he retreats to the laundry room to go "do the laundry." Only, he's not going to do it. He's going to short-cut it like he does everything else he has to do but doesn't want to do in life.

Swinging the door open, he scans the room. Large piles of clothes lie on the floor like miniature mountains sticking out of the earth. Pinching his nose, he notes how putrid all the clothes smell, particularly his own. _Disgusting._

Wading through the river of stained t-shirts and wrinkled pants, he makes his way over to the tall shelf on the opposite end of the room. Off of the top shelf, he grabs a can of air freshener. Then, he presses down on the top of the can and a light mist of lavender comes out, fluttering to the ground like drizzle before a rainstorm.

He sprinkles it on each of the pile of clothes, eliminating the rotten smell of spoiled milk and dead fish. Within minutes all the clothes are smelling like he just ran them through a cycle of laundry, and after putting them back in their respective laundry bins, he decides his work is done.

He just has to wait another hour, then his mother will never know.

Making his way to his room, he opens up one of the various books and begins to read. This one is a crime thriller about a bank robber. Sky has always enjoyed reading, no matter what the topic is. Thrillers, Action Novels, Fantasy, Fiction, Non-Fiction, he's read it all. He's even read forbidden books that his father confiscated from rebels and was supposed to destroy but never did. They're his favorites. He gets an adrenaline rush when he reads them, a rush he gets from little else. Well, little else besides winning a match of ApocalypseNight, but that happens so often it's beginning to lose its lustrous facade. Reading banned books never gets old.

After a few minutes, he's snapped back into reality by the slamming of the door downstairs.

"Hello?" His father calls, his voice echoing off the walls of the house.

"Hey, Dad!" He yells back in greeting.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he picks up his book and begins to read again. Sky loves his father very dearly, but he knows he's not the best man. No one in the government of Three these days was. They're all corrupt, accepting bribes in exchange for favors, rigging the elections, and taxing the people way more than they should. His father and his goonies steal from the banks, lie to the people, and only do whatever is in their best interest. Sky gets nervous every time his father leaves for work. What if today is the day President Heron finds out? Secrets can only stay secrets for so long, especially when so many people know about them. He knows it's only a matter of time. They can't keep lying forever.

Speaking of lying, the hour where he's supposed to be "doing the laundry" is almost up. Putting his book back on the shelf, Sky heads back into the crowded laundry room. He gives the clothes one last spray with air freshener before popping his head out of the door.

"Mom, I finished!"

"Alright, Sky!" His mom shouts back up the stairs. "You can go play videogames again! Thanks for your help!"

He grins, silently fist pumping the air. His plan worked yet again. However, he knows that his shortcuts won't work forever, and someday, his mother is going to find out and he'll have to face they the consequences of his actions.

Someday, they'll all have to pay the price for what they've done.

But that day is not today. For today, he can pretend to do the laundry and read instead. For today, his dad can accept the bribe from Mayor Abbott and bring home a nice, fresh lobster straight from the oceans of District Four. For today, they can live like kings, without a care about tomorrow.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Would have updated yesterday but the site was having some kind of heartattack, so here you go a day late, but better then never._

 _I hope you liked these characters, I embellished them some as I thought it was a pretty neat coincidence I got both the head peacekeeper and mayor's children, so I connected them and made it so it makes sense that they both got reaped. And I'm not usually a fan of head peacekeepers having children, but Sky was born before peacekeepers were a thing so it made sense to me. Also, one of my hcs for Panem is that a lot of the district governments are corrupt, so I had fun world building here, although I hope it doesn't take away from the characters. President Heron obviously finds out and isn't happy about the mess, so that's why they both get reaped if you didn't pick that up :)_

 _Tell me what you think, good or bad. I appreciate every review I get. I've already written 4 and 5's intros since I had a string of snowdays and nothing to do. I'll be updating the next two friday/saturdays though it may be a bit later next week since I'm going to March For Our Lives!_

 _Happy Sunday (Or Monday, for those of you early timezoners),_

 _paper :)_


	6. District Four: Bigger Fish to Fry

_District Four: Bigger Fish To Fry_

* * *

 _Coraline "Coral" Seaton, 17._

 _District Four Female._

* * *

She's never been more alive than when the cool ocean air is whipping her hair around in a frenzy; the salty drops of sea spray flying up against her tanned skin.

"Faster Finn!" Coraline calls to her adoptive father who waves her off like she's a crazy girl. He keeps his head down and keeps driving the boat at the same speed, completely ignoring her suggestion.

Her brother sitting on the bench next to her snickers. "You're insane."

"I know," she retorts, playfully pushing him away. "Did you just find that out?"

He rolls his eyes. "Nah, I've known since you were born. Always had that deranged look in your eyes like you've murdered a man or two."

"Or three."

"Yes, or three. Maybe four."

She laughs, watching as the waves crash up against the boat. They're beginning to slow now, meaning they are nearing their destination. Bending down, she grabs her flippers off the wet floor of the boat and slips them on, then stands to her feet. Her brother sighs and heads to the small cabin, coming back a minute later with her mask.

"I still don't understand why Finn lets you dive and not me. _I've_ always been the better swimmer."

"Well, _I'm_ more athletic!" Coral protests, placing her hands on her hips. "You may be a better swimmer, but you can't go a mile without getting tired. I can go _all_ day without breaking a single sweat."

Her brother raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "Really? Because last time I remember, you were dripping wet when you came back on the boat."

"Because I was in the water dummy!" Coral exclaims.

"I think it was sweat. Lots of sweat. Maybe the ocean is just all your sweat because you sweat so much."

Coral narrows her eyes into two, small blue slits. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Does too."

"Does not!"

"So does."

"Just give me the stupid mask!" Coral barks, reaching for the goggles. However, her brother pulls his arm away and holds them up in the air, a few inches out of her reach. She leaps into the air but is still a few inches short, her barely five-foot body not any help to her cause.

"What is it Shortie? Can't reach it?" her brother jeers. She growls angrily. It's the worst when he calls her Shortie. She may be five-feet tall, but she's not short. She's taller than well-most of the elementary kids in the district? And her mother. She was taller than her mother. Her mother was only a mere 4'11".

He continues to wave the goggles around in the air like a prize, grinning madly. She frowned, continuing to jump into the air.

"See? Who is more athletic now?" her brother mocks, sticking his tongue out to taunt her further.

"Just give me the goggles!" she yelps.

Finn cuts the engine, turning around to face them. He rolls his hazel eyes in response to their asinine behavior. "Stop bickering you too. Wes, give Coral the goggles. We need to hit five more spots today and if we don't start soon, we won't be able to make our daily quota."

Wes sighs in defeat, throwing the goggles at his younger sister. She catches them in mid-air, grinning like a madman. Then, she gives her brother an aptly deserved punch in the gut. He jolts backward and lets out a shocked scream.

"Hey! Finn, did you see what she did?" Wes asks, pointing a defiant finger at his younger sister. Coral doesn't mind him, slipping on her goggles and heading to the edge of the boat where a small ladder sticks out of the water.

"Yes, and I don't care. You well deserved it."

Turning back toward Wes, Coral now is the one to stick her tongue out at him. He just narrows his eyes back at her, giving her a nasty eye paired with an angry scowl.

Ignoring him, she turns back to the still water. It's so clear she can almost see the sandy ocean floor from above the surface, little colorful fish dancing through the lapping waves.

"Wish me luck!" Coral chimes, turning back to her small family in the boat.

"Good luck!" Finn chirped in response, giving her an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Catch me some good ones!"

She brother folds his arms across his chest angrily and groans. "Good luck," he mutters, barely audible enough for her to hear.

Then, she leaps off the boat and jumps into the water, a million tiny bubbles surrounding her as she breaks the once glass-like surface. Once they settle and the water is clear, she blinks her eyes and looks around at the beautiful world she has just submerged into.

Beneath her feet, colorful fish dance through the clear water, swerving in and out of tiny bits of plant-like coral. They sway like leaves in the midsummer breeze, undulating with the movement of the gentle wave. Above her the shadow of their small fishing boat looms, blocking out the shimmering sunlight cascading through the rest of the undersea paradise. In the distance the raised floor that houses the lively coral reef drops off into the distance, the water darkening the further down it gets.

Coraline grips the small spear tightly, floating as motionlessly on the surface of the water as possible. Her eyes dart around the small crevasses between the coral where the fish usually like to hide. So far, nothing. She waits some more.

Time passes. The boat begins to drift further away from her, but she stays still. Over the years she has learned to be patient with spearfishing. If you aren't, the second you move a fish will appear, and it'll be scared away within seconds. To be successful, she just has to stay as still as possible and wait.

Finally, a large yellow fish pokes its head out of one of the gaps between the large coral beds. Smiling, Coral presses the small trigger on the side of the spear and it launches forward, flying through the water like a torpedo. It's so fast the fish sees it but has no time to react and pull away, so a second later the spear has pierced the fish's slimy gills right below its eye. A small trickle of blood is pouring out into the water and begins to disperse, making an inky cloud of red. She winces. Coral has never been a fan of blood, but it's a common thing to see for her so she's used to it. After all, when she's not in the water she's gutting fish back on the boat.

Retracting the spear, she grabs the pointy poll in her hand, the large fish caught on the other side.

"Got one!" she exclaims, popping her head out of the water and holding the fish so that Finn and Wes can clearly see.

Wes just rolls his eyes. "Took you long enough," he grumbles, though Coral knows he's not really upset, but rather playing along. The two have had a fierce rivalry from the moment Coral was born; first, it was for their parent's attention, then for Finn's, then it turned into a contest of who was a better fisher and just a more skilled person overall. They say things they don't mean often, but it's all part of the game. They still love each other, even if they never show it.

"Like you could do better," Coral retorts, swimming back to the boat. A minute later she's standing on the floor soaking wet, zooming off to their next destination. She makes sure to give her brother a little smack with the slimy fish before gutting it.

It's little moments like these that make Coral love what little she has: Finn, the boat, the ocean, and her brother, despite all the little fights they may get into.

They might not be the wealthiest or the most normal family, but they still are something. Life is sweet, simple, and good.

Little did she know everything is about to change.

* * *

 _Archer "Archie" Caspian, 17._

 _District Four Male._

* * *

He's the popular kid at school, the one who knows how to make people laugh even at the gloomiest of funerals, and the boy who can lighten up any situation, even one as dire and foreboding as an apocalypse. He brings home good grades, works diligently at his father's seafood restaurant on the coast, and has plenty of friends. He's a good boyfriend and an even better son, always doing what his parents ask of him without even an utter of complaint.

 _Why can't that be enough?_

"Strike harder," his mother orders, her icy blue eyes the color of a drained sky on a rainy day staring down at him. He's a normal height for a boy his age but even still his mother looms over him like a massive giant, her hands placed on her hips in an effort to try to look sterner.

Archie feels a smile growing on his thin lips as he punches the dummy in front of his with a clenched fist.

As if she needs to be.

"Faster," she commands, his prior punch apparently still not up to her unreachable standards. Her voice is sharp like daggers, digging into his tanned skin the moment the words leave her pursed lips. Nothing is good enough for her. As the founder of the academy, she's always expected more from him than any other trainee who has walked through the glass double doors. Sometimes it feels like her requests are inhumanly possible. With the games looming on the horizon less than two weeks away, the requests have gotten more ridiculous with each passing day.

"Train from sunrise until sunset."

"No breaks."

"The only time I should see you resting is once you've completed 200 knife throws. At least."

"Oh, all in under ten minutes. You never know what to expect in the games. It could happen."

But he doesn't even want to go to the games. However, he doesn't have the heart to tell that to his mother who dreams of that shiny crown on his head when she goes to sleep every night. He can't tell her that he's scared-careers aren't supposed to be scared, after all, they're just supposed to be valiant and brave even when their odds of victory are close to nothing, 1 in 24, less than 5 percent chance. No, he's just supposed to smile like it's a joke and tell his mother that he's excited because he doesn't know how to say no. Death isn't a joke, and unlike his mother, his expectations for the games are realistic. He's not making it out alive. The only way he'll see Four again is in a wooden box.

This time when his knuckles collide with the padded dummy, he feels them crack.

"Better?" he asks once he's composed himself again.

"Better," his mother echoes, giving him a curt nod of approval. She's not one to give affection easily, but Archie knows despite her stiff and rigid exterior, on the inside, she loves him just as much as he loves her. For his mother, a short nod like that is equivalent to a heartfelt compliment or a warm hug. He'll take what he can get.

Outside, a faint stream of moonlight illuminates the glass one of the small windows. They're the last people inside the small room that serves as Four's academy, although during the day it's often far busier. Two years ago his mother never would have imagined her business idea would grow so quickly, but after Mags's surprise win last year, hundreds of parents realized that victory could be their children's fate too. For a simple bet of their children's lives, they could live the life of luxury that Mags had received after she had won and trained on these very floors. For many, the choice was easy.

Of course, his mother wasn't the first to invent the idea of an academy for the Hunger Games. They sprung up in Districts One and Two around the time of the 7th and 8th games, started by victors who realized they could use their acclaimed fame to start a livelihood. Their rumored success prompted his mother to open one up just after the 10th Hunger Games, and within a year, they had already churned out a victor.

Archie gulps. Hopefully, there will be two for two after this year.

"Alright," his mother announces, looking at the ticking clock on the wall. "It's almost nine, I think we're done for today. Go home and get some sleep, we can start practicing knife throwing first thing tomorrow."

He nods his head and gives his mother a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Alright Mom, I'll see you at home."

Only, he's not going home. He has two weeks left to live, and he's not going to waste them sleeping.

He'll have plenty of time to catch up on it when he's dead, anyway.

For now, he's going to live like today is his last.

Well, fourteenth to last. The idea is the same either way.

Running outside, he flings open the double doors. The salty air hits his face like a truck, the pungent smell of the sea wafting through his nose. He inhales slowly, trying to take it all in. He won't be able to smell when he's dead either, so he needs to do all the smelling for a lifetime now.

He trots down the sidewalk, the faint light of the streetlamps illuminating his path. In the distance he sees the glowing sign of his father's restaurant poking out above the rows of swaying palm trees. He quickened his pace, and within minutes, he's standing on the front steps.

"I thought you'd never show up," a low voice crows, and he instantly feels two strong arms wrap around his waist. He lets out a squeak of surprise as he's lifted into the air and twirled around in a circle, laughing and sputtering.

"Put me down!" he giggles, letting out a playful shriek. "Put me down!"

The arms release their grip and drop him to the ground. He knew it was Lance all along but he can see his face now in the dim light, his dark eyes shimmering with a hint of amusement and a twinge of flirtatiousness. All he wants is to kiss him now, but not here. Not right where his father could see.

Instead, his smiles coyly. "You really doubted I'd come?"

"Maybe," Lance replied, shrugging his shoulders in a playful manner. "I thought you'd forgotten about me, career boy. You got bigger fish to fry."

"Bigger fish than you?" he asks, smirking.

"Well-yeah, I guess I'm pretty big," his boyfriend replies, pretending to flex his muscles.

Laughing, Archie shakes his head. "Eh, they're alright. So, are we going to do something or what? Time's ticking!"

Lance nods his head enthusiastically, and Archie grabs him by the arm. He pulls him down the steps and across the street to the beach.

"Close your eyes," he tells Lance.

"You better not throw me in the goddamn water again."

"No promises," Archie snickers, "just close them. I have a surprise for you."

"Is it throwing me in the water?"

"It's a surprise!" he exclaimed happily. "No one likes guessers!"

He frowned, yet didn't protest and let Archie drag him across the sandy beach. The roar of the ocean waves grew louder as they neared the water, the white crests of the waves crashing hard against the raised earth.

"If you are going to throw me in the water I don't want to do this!"

"Too late!" Archie shouts, pressing his hands on Lance's back and launching him forward. Lance tries to hold back but the force from the push is too much and he's stumbling toward the frigid ocean water, helpless but to watch as he belly flops into the shallow current.

"It's cold! It's cold!" Lance shrieks like a baby, making Archie laugh louder.

"That's the point, dummy!" he yells back, stepping away from the water. Then a second later he's running forward, his feet ripping across the cool night sand. Despite it being late fall the weather is still warm in Four; it's almost always summer in the district even on the coldest days. Leaping into the air, he contorts his body into a ball and cannonballs into the frigid water, letting the cold envelope him. He yelps but enjoys the chill that runs down his spine; it's refreshing especially after training relentlessly for twelve hours straight.

"I hate you," Lance jokes bitterly, splashing a wave of water in his direction. It crashes against his face and strings his eyes a little, but he just laughs.

"Then you wouldn't want me to do this," he replies with a coy smile, swimming forward and pressing his chattering lips against Lance's. Lance stops whining and just goes silent, the waves crashing the only thing Archie could now hear.

After a minute, he pulls away.

"I dare you to swim out as far as you can," Lance blurts out, looking out at the black water as it seems to stretch to infinity.

"You _dare_ me?" Archie echoes, his eyes widening slightly. "Where did that come from? I thought a minute ago you'd rather be anywhere else but here."

Lance shrugs as he continues to tread water. "I guess something changed my mind."

He leans forward and they kiss again, his lips tasting salty yet sweet, like a drop of ocean water on a hot day.

"Alright, I like challenges," Archie responds with a sly grin. "Dare accepted."

 _Why not?_ Whether he is impaled by the sharp blade of a sword or floats out into the black and open sea like a piece of driftwood, the outcome is all the same.

There's no difference. He's going to die anyway.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Four's my favorite district :) I love the beach, and my careers. Is there a better mix?_

 _I guess I should probably do some explaining on my career academy headcannons, but eh, I think Archie's section should do. Basically it was one of the victor from Two's idea to open one up as a business idea to fund her crazy compulsion to buy tons expensive stuff. It ended up being pretty popular, so it spread to One and finally to Four. I actually have a personal hc that there was one in Five for a while but they shut it down due to the rebellious activity there as sort of a punishment, but yeah, that's just a crazy idea I have. Anyway, in the early years, they're really just open for money and later they become more of a tradition, so that's the whole career spiel in my universe, PM me if you want to know anything else._

 _Archie's a volunteer and Coral's not, also. Again, Four isn't as rich as One and Two so they are only going to really have one a year as not that many can pay for it._

 _Next up is District Five! Almost halfway, and the motivation is still high! Hoping to be finished with them by the end of May and start the games by late summer. Ambitious? Probably! Will it get delayed? Most likely! But I can hope!_

 _paper :)_


	7. District Five: Hope for the Best

_District Five Introductions: Hope for the Best_

 _Trigger Warning: Mentions of depression, drug addiction and suicidal thoughts in Solomon's section._

* * *

 _Luna Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Female._

* * *

Staring ahead, Luna looks at the white wooden door with a blank gaze. The paint is peeling along its edges; it's been long overdue for a new coating for years now. In the center lies the faint outline of the letters of her brother's name: SOLOMON. A long time ago she remembers painting the letters with her brother, splattering paint onto the wooden blocks her parents bought them as gifts for their 6th birthday. Her brother's letters were yellow; her letters were blue.

She remembers laughing as they drew little cat whiskers on each other's faces, then purring and meowing like a tiny kitten. Her brother was giggling too, the large gap where his two front teeth were slowly growing in visible he was smiling so wide.

She also remembers standing still and silent as he ripped the wooden letters off years later, tearing small holes in his door where the nails had once held them firmly in place. They're still there now, pin-sized gaps in between the faint outline of where the letters once were. He was screaming as he pried them off; she was just staring. Just as she stares now at the phantom of the happy life her brother and they once shared, as faded and distant as the faint outline of the letters on the door.

Blinking, Luna sighs. She doesn't know why she does this anymore. She's stood in this same spot a thousand times, but each attempt ends the same. Every time her brother pushes her further away, making the ever-growing gap between them even wider.

However, maybe this time it will be different.

Maybe this time her brother will say yes.

"Sol?" Luna whispers, her voice so soft it paled in comparison to even the smallest mouse's squeak.

No response. She sighs, trying again.

"Sol?" She asks, a bit louder this time.

"Go away," her brother's sour voice hisses from the other side of the door.

She sighs, letting her chest fall and rise slowly. "Hey, Sol. Want to do something with me?" The young girl murmurs, taking a tiny step forward.

"I said go away."

Luna raises her chin. "How about painting? We can paint whatever you want."

"No, I don't want to paint. Just leave me alone."

"O—okay," Luna stutters, her faint smile curling into a frown. "Are you sure? We don't have to paint, we can do something else too."

"No!" He replies bitterly, raising his voice. "I already said I wanted to be left alone! Why doesn't anyone listen to me? I hate you! Just get out of here!"

Luna opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Tears well in her eyes, shimmering in the dim light. For a while, there's only silence, the steady beating of her heart the sole thing ringing in her ears.

She finally finds the words. "I listen to you," she breathes softly, her voice barely audible once more. Her few friends always tell her she's as quiet as a tiny mouse; her teachers always prod her to speak up in class when they call on her.

There's no response on the other side of the door. Something shuffles inside then it is quiet again.

"I listen to you," she says louder, more confidently this time.

There is another pause before her brother's voice roars again. "JUST GO AWAY!"

Her shoulders droop sadly. Taking a deep breath in, she lets the sour smell emanating from her brother's room fill her nose. She knows what it is; she wishes she didn't.

Luna's long black hair follows her as she turns away, back to the creaking stairs that lead to the kitchen below. She's about to walk down them when she hears a low sobbing on the other side of the rotting door, almost silent but still there; a reminder to her that her brother, despite the walls he put up around him, did listen to her after all.

She turns back, taking a tiny step forward.

"I just want you to know that I love you," she breathes, "even if you hate me, I'll always be there for you."

Then she turns and leaves, heading down the stairs into the kitchen. There, her parents are sitting at their dining table with one missing leg holding piles of bills in their hands. Luna knows most of them are for Solomon's psychotherapy and medications he takes to lessen his depressive symptoms. Just out of their sight, Luna pauses on one of the higher steps and listens.

"How are we going to pay for all these?" her mother mutters, letting the papers sift through her hands and fall back onto the grimy table's surface.

Her father shrugs, not responding right away. "I—I don't know," he stutters. "But we'll find a way, we always do. Maybe Luna and Solomon can take a few more tesserae."

"But they already take out so much. What if they get reaped?"

"They won't," her father responds confidently.

"But—"

"They can't. The odds are in their favor. There are plenty of other kids who take out tesserae for their families, even in Five. Statistically, it can't be them."

"Well—"

"It can't be."

They are silent again. Luna gulps and continues down the steps, quickly ducking into another room before her parents can say hello. It's not that she doesn't like to talk to them, she very well does, but right now, she knows they have a lot on their plate. They both work two jobs to pay for the expensive treatment for Solomon's illness and are downright exhausted more often than not. It's better for all of them if she gives her parents space when they are home. They already have one kid to worry about; they don't need two.

She hurries outside to where Radiance, her best friend, and Quentin, her boyfriend, are waiting patiently for her on the front steps.

"How'd it go with Sol?" Radiance asks, tilting her head to the side.

Luna doesn't respond, giving her friend a weak smile. While Radiance still looks slightly confused, but Quentin seems to have gotten it, her lack of response all the information he needs.

"It's his decision, alright? Your life can't solely revolve around him. He's his own person and makes his own choices. It's not your fault," Quentin consoles. He stands and gives her a tight hug, and she nods her head slowly. "Plus, maybe he'll want to join us next time. You never know."

"Yeah, maybe next time," she echoes, her normal toothy smile returning to her face.

Her smile seems to prove infectious, for Radiance begins to grin too. "Alright, are we ready to go? We're still on for painting and some reading, right?"

"Right!" Quentin and Luna chorus in unison.

"Good, because I got a ton of new books from the library. I wouldn't want them to go to waste."

Quentin laughs, placing his arm around Luna's shoulder. "Sounds good. You want to lead, _Lulu_?"

Rolling her eyes, Luna punches Quentin's side gently. "I told you not to call me that!" She exclaims, twisting her face into a mock grimace. He just laughs, resting his head on top of her's and hugging her tighter.

"I don't think you could be mad at me if you tried. Or anyone, rather," he teases, beginning to walk. For the rest of the walk, the three of them tread in silence, Luna's mind drifting back to her depressed brother.

He'll come around eventually. She knows he will. He has to.

Or, she at least has to hope. Right now, that's one of the only things they have left.

* * *

 _Solomon Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Male._

* * *

He _hates_ group therapy.

Twice a week, his parents drag him out of from his dark and safe room into the horribly bright and overly lit building aptly named Bright Futures. It on the nice side of town, away from the slummy ghettos and crumbling apartments with rotting wood and discolored bricks where they live. It's where all the rich people go, which makes him detest it even more.

He knows his parents can't afford it. They work dead-end jobs in the power plants scraping the gunk off the walls and making sure the nuclear reactors don't get too hot. Before he began to get treatment, his parents could barely put food on the table, let alone have extra money afterward. They certainly cannot afford for him to talk for two hours twice a week about his feelings.

Solomon knows his parents are at wit's end with him. He knows they are sick of working 80 hours a week and giving up their lives so that he could have a chance at trying to make his a good one. However, they won't stop. They love him too much. They love him so much that they'll ruin their own lives, desperate to find a treatment that actually works even if it has a price tag too expensive for them to pay. Even if it kills them, they'll find a way to make him better.

Sometimes he wonders if it would be better if he was dead. That way, his parents could live normal lives. Luna would no longer blame herself, and his family would no longer have to worry about him. It seemed that without him, everyone would be happier.

"Welcome everyone to the first class of the winter group session of Bright Futures," his therapist, Dr. Pan, begins. He's had a few sessions with her before, and he likes her; she's patient and understanding, and never probes him. However, he is sometimes frustrated with her attempts to treat his depression. To him, relief is hopeless. She believes it can be fixed, but he doesn't. Nothing, not psychotherapy, not medication, can cure him. The only thing that can provide him some sort of relief is morphling; it numbs his pain; it makes it so he can't feel anything.

"I'm Dr. Pan, and if you have any questions, please feel free to ask me. Remember, this is a supportive, nonjudgmental and confidential space, meaning anything that anyone says here stays here. We are all here to help each other get better, and the only way we can do that is to have an open mind and an open heart. Understood?"

"Understood," the group murmurs, their voices almost sounding like a unified chorus. Solomon looks around, his dark eyes scanning the group. There are about a dozen people sitting in a circle, some of whom he recognizes from school and previous therapy sessions. Other people are complete strangers; an older woman of about sixty with greying hair sits directly across from him, a boy with tanned skin and dark bags reclines two seats away. He wonders why they are here, and if their families are sacrificing so much to give them hope of getting better.

"Alright," she declares, her pale grey eyes resting on a middle-aged woman sitting a few seats down from him. He recognizes her from the summer session; she's been here for about a year and a half, ever since her son died in the Hunger Games. "Mrs. Williamson, would you like to start us off? For now, just tell us your name and why you're here if you are comfortable with that. If not, you can just say your name."

The woman nods mutely, her eyes grazing the group. "I'm Mary Williamson. Many of you probably know me as the wife of the former mayor of Five, and I'm here because I've been suffering from depression ever since my son died in the 10th Hunger Games."

Solomon feels a cold shiver run down his spine, and he looks away. A few years ago he and Dr. Pan discovered the root cause of his depression to be from watching the Hunger Games every year; watching the tributes die made him sad and hopeless. He didn't understand how their government could sacrifice _innocent children_ to live out some twisted revenge plan they had. It made him sick to his stomach thinking about how the Capitol made a show out of it, parades, interviews, broadcasts, everything about it just made him want to puke.

"Thank you," Dr. Pan replies, turning to the next person in the circle. "And you there? Would you like to go next?"

It's the boy with sun-kissed skin and dark bags under his eyes that Solomon has never seen before. However, he looks about his age, his eyes are still vibrant and bright, and his skin is without wrinkles and blemishes.

"I'm Brighton Lanell," the boy murmurs so softly Solomon has to crane his head and perk his ears to hear. His mouse-like voice reminds him of his quiet sister who can barely speak loudly as well. "And I—and I—and I—"

Dr. Pan blinks. "It's okay, you don't have to give us a reason. Your name is enough. Welcome, Brighton."

"Thanks," he mutters quietly.

Turning toward him, Dr. Pan nods her head in a signal that he's next.

"I'm Solomon Nguyen," he grumbles, looking away from the two dozen eyes staring right at him. He's always been a somewhat quiet kid, even before he was diagnosed with clinical depression. At school, he rarely raised his hand and mostly only spoke when the teacher called on him, yet he did have some friends. Luna has always been the quieter one, which was why his parents were so surprised when it turned out to be him who was screwed up in the head, not her. However, both of them never enjoyed public speaking.

Dr. Pan nods her head, nudging him on.

"And I'm uh—depressed. We don't really know why, but Dr. Pan and I speculate it's because of watching the Hunger Games. I also take a lot of morphling. I've tried to stop, but I can't. It all just sucks. Everything sucks. My life sucks. I hate everything, and I wish life would just fuc—"

"Okay, that's enough Solomon, I think we get the picture," Dr. Pan cuts him off. "Thank you for sharing though."

Everyone nods and Dr. Pan continues onto the next person in the circle until they've all gone and introduced themselves. He finds that most of the people here are, just like him, depressed and suffer from addiction issues.

"Alright. Since we're now all acquainted with one another, would anyone like to share some coping mechanisms they use to deal with their problems?"

Solomon sighs, reclining back in his chair. He wishes he could just go home, curl up in a tiny ball in his dark room and sleep. Despite what his parents and Dr. Pan think, these sessions don't help him, and they certainly won't cure him. To him, they're just a waste of time and money. The only thing that helps him cope is taking morphling; nothing else he's tried has worked. He doubts after four years of trying new things and watching them fail anything will change.

However, he has an idea, an idea that will solve all his problems and numb his pain, an idea that will make his parents financially stable again and make Luna stop feeling guilty for the downward spiral he's been on since he woke up one morning when he was thirteen and felt horribly and utterly helpless. They won't have to struggle and he won't have to suffer.

If he wins, his parents will have enough money to live in luxury for the rest of their lives, and if he loses, he'll be put out of his misery forever. There will be no more days where he feels like it'd be better if the world was going to end, and there will be no more days where his parents come home looking like undead zombies. His idea will solve all their problems.

Yet, he can't tell anyone about his idea. People are already worried enough about him, they don't need to be even more so. He can't tell his parents, Dr. Pan, and most of all, he can't tell Luna. It'd just completely brake her.

He's going to volunteer for the Hunger Games.

* * *

 **A/N:** _District Five is in the books. Hope you enjoyed this pair of siblings, I'm not usually a fan of siblings but my sun and moon pair are just great! I can't wait to tear them apart in the games :) (Don't look at me funny, we're Hunger Games writers after all!)_

 _Tell me what you think of them, and expect District Six to be up next weekend. Then, we're halfway done. Woooo!_

 _paper :)_


	8. District Six: Flying High

_District Six Intros: Flying High_

* * *

 _Winnifred "Freddie" Ellison, 16._

 _District Six Female._

* * *

Some people say being forgotten and overlooked is a bad thing. As the middle child of seven children, Winnifred has been forgotten more than her fair share of times. She's been left at school until long past dark, home alone for days at a time, and completely disregarded by her always busy parents on several occasions. Most people despise it and want all the attention they can get.

But for her, being ignored is fricking fantastic.

When no one's watching, she can do whatever she pleases without consequences. The world is a stage without limits, a vista of endless possibilities each better and more enthralling than the last. Yesterday it was skipping school. Today, it's jumping off a building. Tomorrow, who even knows? It'll be something great, she at least can guess that.

"Freddie, are you really sure this is a good idea?" Her friend Elle questions, her eyes as wide as a deer in headlights as she stares up in awe at Freddie standing on the top of the roof with her thin and lanky arms spread out like birds' wings.

Winnifred just rolls her dark eyes in response, twirling around in a circle. The cold late fall wind whips her choppily cut hair into tiny ringlets waving like tiny flags behind her. From the roof of her house, she can see almost all of Six: suburban developments and townhomes that stretch for miles in all directions, railyards in the east and commercial drags in the west. Behind her the smoking stacks of the factories chug on, her older siblings and parents working diligently inside them like cogs in an endless machine. They're boring and bland, like mindless worker bees in a hive. She's vowed never to be like them; she'll always be the one making her own decisions are forging her own path; she'll never just be another faceless worker in a factory. No, she's going to be the maker of her own destiny, the forger of her own path, the boss of her own body. No one will ever stop that, not her parents, not her teachers, and most certainly not Elle, who can't even muster up the courage to come join her on the roof.

"Of course it's not a good idea!" Winnifred replies. "But who cares? I'm going to fricking fly like a bird. Not many other people can say that."

A hand grabs her shoulder, turning her around. Looking up, Winnifred sees the dark green eyes of her best friend sparkling with amusement and excitement. "Did you forget about me, Fred?" The tall girl asks, placing her hands on the hips as if she were disappointed. Freddie knows she's not though. Tara could never be disappointed with her. They've been friends for as long as she can remember, practically thick as thieves. Nothing could tear them apart.

Winnifred rolls her eyes again, giving Tara a playful shove. "How could I _ever_ forget about you? And yes, I guess you could say that too. We'll both fly."

"And me!" A voice chortles behind them, hard footsteps pattering along the shingles of the roof. The two of them whirl around at exactly the same time to see their other friend, Tyler, running toward them at a sprint. When he finally catches up he wraps his arms around their necks, pulling them tightly together. Winnifred groans.

"And you," she mutters grumpily, though her tone is just an act she uses while around him. She's excited to see her friend Tyler, though sometimes he could be a bit much. She's joking though—for the most part.

He chuckles softly. "You ladies can never forget about me, right? I'm just so handsome all the women remember me, even you two bozos."

Laughing, Winnifred pulls away. " _Sure_ ," she responds sarcastically, raising a brow. "I mean, you are just _so_ handsome."

"Yeah, _so_ handsome," Tara snorts. "Like, you practically blind me."

"I know," Tyler replies cockily, ignoring their snarky remarks. "You don't have to tell me twice."

"Hey, are you guys going to just chat all day or actually do this?" Elle calls up to them from the ground. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you guys were scared!"

"Scaredy cats! Scaredy cats!" Two of their other friends jeer from the ground, breaking into a fit of giggles after a few times around.

Winnifred scoffs, stepping forward so she's only a foot away from the edge of the roof. "Me, scared?"

"Yeah, do you even know us?" Tara asks, smirking widely.

"Yeah, I think I know you two pretty well," Lina, one of their other friends, laughs, pointing her finger up at the trio standing on the top of the house. "Enough to know you're scaredy cats."

Raising an eyebrow, Winnifred places her hands on her hips. "Well, I'm not the one on the ground."

Lina looks away, her face flushing red hot with shame. Winnifred snorts. _Yeah, that's what she thought._

"I—I prefer to spectate," Lina stutters, looking back up at Winnifred. "You know, so I can see for next time."

"Sureeee."

"No, I swear! I'll do it next time, I promise!"

 _Excuses._ In her mind, if you are planning to do something, just do it.

Winnifred feels her hands beginning to tremble with anticipation. Her friends are still a few feet back, looking down nervously at the springy white mattress lying on the ground 20 or so feet below. Despite all three of them being daring, they've always been the more cautious ones. If dared to, Winnifred would jump off a cliff without a second thought. Tyler and Tara, on the other hand, would think about it and assess the possible danger.

She doesn't think. She just does.

"So, are we going to do this or what?" She asks, beginning to grow impatient.

"Of course," Tara replies with a grin. "But you're the one testing it out, right?"

"I always am," Winnifred replies confidently, taking a giant step forward so the toes of her feet are hanging off the edge of the roof. Then, she steps to the left onto a giant trampoline Tyler found in his backyard. This will make her fly higher. Faster. Longer. "Want to count me down?"

Everyone nods.

"Three!"

"Two!"

"O—"

But she's already jumped, her legs propelling her even higher into the air. For a split second, she's flying upward, the force from her strong legs powering her further and further into the sky. She raises her chin and spreads her arms, letting the wind whip her hair around in circles.

Flying like a bird is even more amazing than she ever could have imagined. She feels glorious, elated, inebriated, and wonderful like she's high on some kind of miracle drug and lost in a beautiful and dreamlike euphoria.

For the first time in a while, she feels truly and utterly free.

But then she's falling, dipping back toward the ground as she begins to descend faster and faster. She's hurtling back toward reality at an astounding rate, the ground growing closer with each passing millisecond. She jolts open her eyes and tries to grab the air in an effort to slow herself down, but it does nothing but make her fall faster.

 _If flying is like dreaming,_ she decides, _then falling is like waking up._

Then she hits the mattress, and to her surprise, it does little to break her fall like she anticipated. She feels the bones in her stomach crack as her body hits the springs, snapping like nothing more than little thin twigs. She groans and lets out a shrill scream, though it's stifled in the padding of the mattress so no one can hear her but herself.

 _And if falling is like waking up, then hitting the ground is like facing reality._

"Winnifred!" She hears Elle yell. Then, three pairs of strong hands pull her up and roll her onto her back. She moans, letting her eyes flutter closed.

"Are you okay?"

She doesn't respond, blinking them open and looking up at the placid blue sky as if she were in some kind of daze. Her eyes have a glazy film to them, and all of a sudden, she begins to feel nauseous. Black intrudes at the sides of her eyes, and she manages to stave it away, at least for the moment.

"Are you okay?" Elle repeats, now shaking her shoulders as if she were trying to wake her up. "Freddie, are you okay?"

Then, she smiles.

"I flew."

"You are an idiot Freddie!" She hears her friends yell from the roof. "A certified idiot! A mattress? How on earth did you think an old mattress would break your fall? Maybe you shouldn't have skipped physics class!"

"I flew," is all she says, and then everything goes black.

* * *

 _Tyrell Taiko, 15._

 _District Six Male._

* * *

Life would be easier if things could just all go back to the way they originally were.

He'd give anything to go back to a time when he was young and carefree; a time where his biggest fear was if he if he'd get the toy he wanted for his birthday; a day where he had friends that didn't leave the second they found out his not so secret secret; a morning when he could just go outside and listen to the birds chirp; a minute where he could hear like all the other kids do. A second where he was just _normal._

But things don't work like that. He's watched the world enough to realize that time keeps moving forward whether you want it to or not, and he's learned to roll with the waves—or rather, the vibrations. To stop being sad and hopeless, and not wish for death every second of the day. That things do get better, even if progress is slow. And for him, progress has been very, very slow.

After he went deaf, he was so depressed it took him a full year and a half to come out of his house again.

Through his dark shades, Tyrell scans the bustling crowd on the street. His eyes dart back and forth as he observes the street in front of him, watching as people hustle by in plain grey uniforms on their way to the factories with their endless assembly lines. He can feel their footsteps as they march past him, heavy and mundane. He guesses they are going to work. Normally, Lucian takes him to a more secluded spot, usually a park or a less busy side street, but today he decided to go all out. Tyrell feels a bit nervous, but he takes a deep breath and embraces the butterflies twirling around in his stomach.

 _You okay with playing in front of these many people?_ His friend signs to him.

He shrugs his shoulders in response. _No, but I'll never know if I don't try._

He can feel the warm energy flow out of Lucian's mouth as he laughs. Tyrell smiles back, and Lucian gives him a reassuring pat on the back. _You can do this, remember, they call you the miracle drummer for a reason._

Now it's Tyrell who finds himself laughing. It was true, he had begun to accumulate some fame around the district—at least enough to earn him the nickname, that is. People are often impressed by his drumming skills alone when they see him—but when they hear he's deaf, they are astonished. That's why they call him the miracle drummer. It's not only a miracle he survived a severe case of meningitis when he was ten, but it's a miracle he can still play as well as he does. He can imagine the conversations they have in his head.

"Did you see that kid on the street this morning playing the drums?" They'd ask their friends.

"Yeah, I did, and he was really good!" Their friends would reply. "I can't believe he's so young too!"

"Did you also know he was deaf?"

"Wow, that's amazing! He's super talented."

Or, at least that's how he imagines it'd go in his head. _But who is he to know?_ He hasn't heard people talk in five years. For all he can guess, the way they say their sentences could have completely changed. Maybe it's all backward, or maybe, they don't even speak English anymore.

He finds himself laughing. They totally still speak English.

Then, Tyrell taps his symbol, signaling to Lucian that he's ready to start. Lucian nods his head and grabs his guitar, strumming it once. A few people on the street look their way, and then, the rest of the world fades away as they begin to play.

He's in the zone now, feeling the vibrations as his drumstick bangs down on the top of the drum. He's not wearing shoes, and his bare feet are exposed to the cold ground as he plays. This way, the vibrations are clearer and he can stay more in time with Lucian's signing and guitar playing. He listens to the patterns that the drums make as he hits—two long and loud vibrations—one short and quiet one. That means that the chorus of the song was coming up, where he'd play another series of vibrations three loud and short, two medium short, then five quick ones.

A small semi-circle of people has begun to form around the duo now, but Tyrell doesn't even notice. When he plays, he's able to zone everything else out and just focus on playing. It takes a lot of concentration to feel the vibrations then remember what sequence he has to play, but thankfully, he's good at it. Even before he went deaf, he always had a very focused mindset. However, when he lost his hearing it only improved. That was one of the funny things about being deaf. When his hearing went, all his other senses improved.

A few minutes later, Tyrell hits his final note and the crowd politely applauds. An older man drops a dollar into the silver tip jar in front of them. He and Lucian share a smile before his friend stands up to bow.

Despite not being able to hear him, Tyrell knows what he's saying. He can read lips to some degree, and the two of them went over this little speech in sign language beforehand to make sure it was okay with him. He imagines Lucian's voice in his head, soft and smooth like melted chocolate.

"Thank you, thank you, everyone. I'm Lucian, and this little guy right here is my friend Tyrell."

Tyrell scowls and rolls his eyes playful. He told Lucian earlier not to put that part in there, but his friend apparently didn't listen. Tyrell wasn't little—if anything, he was a normal height and weight for his age. Lucian was probably just doing that to tease him.

"Tyrell is actually deaf—he's been so since he contracted meningitis when he was ten," Lucian says, Tyrell practicing reading his lips.

Some people in the crowd's eyes go wide, and they blink at him in a state of disbelief. He can see some of their mouths rounded into little O shapes, their jaws dropped in sheer awe. A deaf kid that can play the drums? Wow!

Then, Lucian turns to him and signs for him to stand up and say hello. He shyly smiles and stands, waving at everyone. Some people wave back, and he quickly sits back down. He's always been shy, but he's used playing as a way to conquer that. However, he still doesn't like addressing large groups of people, and really only feels comfortable talking to people he's known for a while, like his parents, siblings, or Lucian.

"So, if you have any questions for either of us, you can ask me and I'll ask Tyrell. Or, if you know sign language, you can ask him yourself! He actually can still speak, despite the fact he's deaf. It's pretty cool!"

Many of the people scatter and continue on in whichever direction they were headed, but a few stay to talk. He stands and heads over to Lucian. The two exchange high fives before turning to answer the people's questions.

It's hard to believe that two years ago, he was sitting in his dark room alone and depressed believing like everyone in the world hated him. Now, there's a line of people waiting to ask him questions and tell him how awesome he is.

It got better. It really did.

But little did he know in a few weeks, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

* * *

 **A/N:** And with that, we're halfway through the reapings! Hope you guys have enjoyed them so far, and your support has just been _amazing._ Like 91 reviews in seven chapters? Wow! I just can't thank you guys enough, and you really submitted some awesome characters too. Just amazing all around.

Back to the chapter, I hope you all liked Freddie and Tyrell. I had a bit of trouble with him, writing a deaf tribute was a bit harder then I thought but I'm excited for the challenge. I mean, I wrote a Siamese twin last time so how much harder can it get? He's just an awesome character too, so I just don't want to let his submitter down. And Winnifred I love to, she's basically Raleigh in girl form! How could I not love her?

And a side note, if I don't include everything in your character's form I'll hopefully get it later! 1000-1500 words isn't enough sometimes, especially since I try to shy away from information dumps and try to make there be something going on.

Anyway, hope you like these characters, and be pumped for District Seven and beyond! Plus, starting next weekend I have a week break so I'm hoping to write a TON during it and hopefully get to District 10, though I won't post it all right away. Just know I'm even more excited for this project then Crimson, and that's really saying something. I had fricking DREAMS about that story.

Oh, and check out 's new story, Blood and Water! Looks super promising, if you're looking for something to submit to these days.

Happy spring is finally here,

paper :)


	9. District Seven: Bad Choices

_District Seven Intros: Bad Choices_

* * *

 _Terra McIntosh, 18._

 _District Seven Female._

* * *

Today could almost be the perfect day.

If she didn't have to see her mother, that is.

The sky is a placid blue, the color of a blossoming flower in springtime or a feather on a bluebird's wing. Little clouds dot the sky like tufts of cotton, and the wind is unusually warm for it being so late in fall. The golden sun beats down on her like a stream of light from heaven, illuminating the top of her wavy black hair. It shimmers like a shiny metal when she tilts her head. The day is so perfect it could be on the front page of a children's storybook: blue sky, green grass, bright sun.

In the distance, her niece and nephew chase each other around in endless circles like dogs chasing their tails. The older of the two always catches up and tackles the younger one, then they stand and start again, the cycle continuing. She watches them with soft eyes, reclining back in the soft grass. They shriek and gurgle with laughter, warm and jubilant. It fills her ears and makes her smile; that is until she is reminded of her own son.

She's not smiling anymore.

Footsteps pad behind her, and she twists her body around to face a tall man with a giant grin: her brother. His smile fades slightly when he sees her, but it quickly returns when he looks back to his kids playing happily a few yards away.

"They're so cute now, aren't they? I wish they could just stay this way forever," he murmurs.

"Running in circles?" She replies with a bitter tone, taking her brother a bit off guard. But he shouldn't be. Whenever he tries to talk to her about his kids she's always a bit bitter; her jealousy fumes like a raging fire, and for some strange reason, her brother can never see it.

"No, young."

"Oh," Terra mutters, looking back at the pair. "Yeah, I guess you don't want them to be old and screwed up like me."

Her brother's expression turns stern. "You're not screwed up, Ter."

"Yeah, I am."

There's no reply, only the sound of giggling in the distance. Her brother Landon clicks his tongue and turns back to the children, his face expressionless. He knows she's screwed up; no one normal gets pregnant at fifteen, kicked out of their house the same year, and then accidentally kill their baby a few months later. _Accidentally._ Or rather, she likes to think of it as an accident. That's the only thing that keeps her somewhat sane when everything is crumbling around her.

"You can't control the past Ter," Landon responds quietly after some time. "Speaking of which, Mom's on her way. She'll be here around noon."

Terra swears under her breath, arching her neck back so her head is hanging down toward the ground. "Why can't she just leave me the hell alone?"

"Because she loves you."

"She didn't love me three years ago when she kicked me out," Terra hisses bitterly, sitting back up straight, her arms crossed in anger.

"She did. She was just—just—her vision was just a little blurry was all. She had trouble seeing you for what you were. But she's sorry now Ter, and that's why she's coming here today. She's trying to make it up to you."

"Well she can't make it up to me," she snarls, leaping to her feet. "It was her fault—all of it! All of it was her damn fault! If she didn't kick me out then maybe I wouldn't have treated Vale—"

Landon cuts her off. "Just change into something nice okay? She hates seeing you upset."

"Whatever," Terra growls, rolling her dark eyes. "And it's her fault, I just want you to know that. Vale's dead because of her, so if you think I'm going to put on some kind of show to make it seem like everything's alright, then y—"

"Just put something nice on."

"Fine," she hisses before stalking away, leaving her _perfect_ brother to play with his _perfect_ children in the _perfect_ meadow behind their _perfect_ house. She feels her nostrils flare up just thinking about the _perfect_ life he has.

That could have been her. This life—all of it, could have been her's.

Too bad the world had to screw it all up for her.

She flings open the door to the house, letting it crash against the back siding loudly. Rosa, her sister-in-law, is startled by the sudden noise and looks up from her book. Terra doesn't bother to say hello. She's always hated Rosa anyway. The woman was just too nice to be genuine; Terra has never seen her mad or upset, not even at Vale's tiny funeral. And now that's she pregnant with her third child, she's worse than ever. Always laughing and singing to her baby—it was just disgusting. When Terra was pregnant, she was so miserable and full of raging hormones she couldn't go one day without screaming or crying. How could Rosa always be so _happy_?

"Hey Terra, how's your day going?" Rosa asks, smiling cheerfully as she passes.

"How about you guess?" Terra snaps.

"Good?" Rosa asks back, flashing her another signature sweet Rosa smile. Terra bet if the world was ending in a minute, Rosa would still be smiling and joyful. The woman never panicked. Ever.

"Wrong," Terra hisses back, then slams the door behind her as she enters her bedroom. Laying on the top of her bed is a pink dress lined with pretty yellow and orange flowers. Rosa or Landon must have laid it out for her after she left to go watch her niece and nephew play. She remembers the first time she wore that dress she was attending a dance at her high school with Wren, her then-boyfriend, and she had saved up entire months to just buy it. She had looked so pretty in it.

Looking at it now, frayed and dirty, it just reminded her of false hope and broken promises.

Her and Wren always said they'd get married. It was all they'd ever talk about: the wonderful life they were going to have once she moved out and Wren got a stable job.

But apparently, that life didn't include a baby. Or at least, it didn't to him.

Terra blinks out of her stupor, the room coming back into focus. She looks at the dress again before tossing it aside. She should wear it, she really should; it would make her mother happy like her brother said. But does she want to? _No_. So she won't.

Instead, she slips on a dirtied shirt and tattered shorts. Looking at herself in the small mirror on her dresser, she frowns. She doesn't really need to grimace—her brother used to always tease her when they were little that she suffered from resting grumpy face, but the frown makes her look even more miserable. And she is. Terra wants to show her mother that she is miserable, and she was the one who made her feel this way.

Her mother, Landon, Wren, her father, Rosa—everyone. It was everyone's fault that she was like this, a sad, hollowed out version of her former self. They made her like this, and she's going to make sure they know that.

Call her petty or stubborn, but that's what she is. There's no changing her now.

She hears a soft knock on the door and instantly knows that despite how hard her mother tries, their relationship isn't going to change either.

* * *

 _Bruno Muller, 13._

 _District Seven Male._

* * *

"I beat you again!" Bruno exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air victoriously. He then pumps one of them forward, grinning wildly. So far, he's undefeated in their daily lunch arm wrestling competition, but that's not a surprise to him. He always wins, so much so that he decides defeat doesn't even need to be a word in his vocabulary. He doesn't use it—or practice it anyway. He's just a natural born winner.

His friend Annona frowns, rolling her forest green eyes playfully. "God Bruno, you don't have to be a jerk about it. We all know you're strong, okay?"

"Yeah I am," he replies confidently, winking at her. She sticks her finger in her mouth and pretends to gag, which makes some of their friends at the table gurgle with laughter.

"As if," she snorts. "The only reason you win is because you're a cocky bastard and if you were to lose, you wouldn't be able to take it. Your giant ego would pop if we actually tried."

She then throws her dime at him, hitting Bruno square in the nose. Lately, they've been gambling with their lunch money, which the school deemed illegal a few years before when a bunch of kids bet each other's tesserae slips. However, Bruno doesn't care. He's always liked to live a little bit on edge, and the thought of knowing he's breaking a school rule makes his blood rush red with adrenaline.

He blinks and picks the silver coin out of his lap where it landed, holding it into the air. It glints in the sun streaming through the cafeteria windows, lustrous and shiny. He then puts it back down on the table, glancing up at his group of friends with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Fine then. If you are really just letting me win, then don't. Double or nothing, and if you win, I'll stop talking about how great I am."

His friends circling the table cheer.

"Yeah, take him down, Ann!"

"Yeah Annona, you got this!"

Annona turns back and gives him another mischievous grin. "I—I don't know, I don't really want you to lose to a _girl._ You'd be completely broken."

"Oohhh!" one of his friends exclaims loudly. "Do you need some aloe for that burn?"

Bruno rolls his eyes, his lips curved into a giant smile. "I'm not glass. I don't break easy, unlike you."

"If you say so," Annona replies slyly, ignoring his jeers. She juts her arm out and places her elbow on the table, tilting her hand forward. Bruno throws the dime back in the middle, adding another one of his own. Then, he takes her hand, gripping it tightly. She squeezes it back, daring him on.

"Alright!" one of their friends announces, grabbing his napkin and using it as if it were a checkered flag at the beginning of a race. He waved it in front of their interlocked hands, "On the count of three you can begin! One . . ."

"You ready to lose?" Annona jeers lightheartedly.

"Two . . . "

"Do I ever?" Bruno replies cockily, closing his eyes. "I can beat you easily, even with my eyes closed."

"Three!"

All their friends begin to cheer as the match begins, the two of them pushing as hard as they could against each other. Bruno grits his teeth as he feels the pressure of Annona's hand pushing on his own, yet, despite her increased effort, he's still much stronger. Within a few seconds, he feels his hand on top of her's, pushing her down toward the flat table.

Suddenly, he hears someone call his name.

"Mr. Muller!"

 _Oh crap._

"Mr. Muller, stop it immediately!" one of the lunch monitors calls, rushing over to him. He jolts open his eyes just in time to see most of his crowd of friends scatter in all directions, running for other tables where they can blend into the crowd. However, Annona doesn't back down, her fist still clenched and pushing desperately against his own in an effort to win and save her own pride.

"Mr. Muller! Ms. Brook! Stop it immediately!"

Bruno knows he should run; he knows he should book it right now as fast as he can. If he leaves now, he might be able to make it through the double doors just in time and disappear from the lunch monitor's sight without him catching up to him.

But he can't leave. As long as Annona's hand is still interlocked with his and in the air, he can't give up. Not now. He can't lose. She has to give in first. He can't be the one to run. His friends will call him chicken for the rest of time if he does. If he loses to a—to a—to a _girl_.

And he's so close. Just one more inch and her hand will be on the ground and this issue will be solved forever.

All eyes in the cafeteria are turned toward the two of them. He knows he's being stupid; he's too stubborn right now for his own good, but he can't give up. Not when almost the entire school is watching. He needs to win. If not for the money, for his pride.

He's so close now. Annona's hand was practically touching the table, her knuckles grazing the grey surface. Just one more second, then—

He feels a hard hand yank on the collar of his shirt, jerking his up to his feet. Annona squeaks and runs away, disappearing into the crowd of wide-eyed students. She's short so she blends right in.

He's whipped around so his wide eyes are staring right up into the lunch monitor's narrowed ones. He tries to run away but the teacher's grip is strong—even for him, the self-proclaimed "strongest kid in the seventh grade."

"Gambling again, Mr. Muller?"

"No," the young boy squeaks. He's taller and stronger than most other kids his age, but right now, below the lunch monitor's angry gaze, he looks smaller and weaker than ever.

The grip gets tighter. "Don't lie to me. I see the coins on the table."

"We—we weren't gambling. T—that was our lunch money," he stutters, looking away to avert the man's harsh gaze.

The lunch monitor shakes his head. "How about you tell that to the principle and your parents? I'm sure they'll be just _thrilled_ to hear that lie."

 _Crap._ Anyone but his parents. If his dad finds out, Bruno will never hear the end of it.

And with that, Bruno's whisked off to the principal's office, the monitor's grip of his shirt tighter than ever.

The principal's office is a small room at the front of the school, with wooden arches and the school motto carved into a false golden plaque beside the room: _preparing bright students for an even brighter future._ Bruno rolls his eyes every time he looks at it. Despite being sheltered from most of the bad things that happen by his dad, he knows enough to know that there's no bright future in Panem, especially not after the rebellion.

"Sit here," the monitor orders, pointing to a fading bench just beside the door. "We already called your parents; your dad should be here in a few minutes so you two can talk with Mrs. Peony together."

Bruno feels his heart drop. _Yep, he was never going to hear the end of this._

A few minutes later his dad arrives, a skinny yet balding man with a permanent scowl plastered on his face. However, today it's even more prevalent, his lips almost curved all the way down to the bottom of his chin.

"Who pressured you into doing this?" Is the first thing his dad says, standing him up and examining him as if he were hurt.

"No one," Bruno replies, pulling away from his dad's grip.

"Was it those bullies?" His dad asks, completely ignoring his response. "Oh, there were so many bullies when I was a kid! I knew I should have homeschooled you! First, it's gambling—next its drugs—then it's alcohol—and then you're practically already dead!"

Bruno crosses his arms over his chest. "Dad, I'll be fine. There are no bullies."

"Then who was it?"

"It was me and my friends."

"Then you can't see your friends anymore," his father declares immediately. "I obviously didn't teach you that, so it must have been your friends. They are bad influences Bruno, and I don't want you getting hurt again."

"But I didn't even get hurt!" Bruno protests. "It's just mindless fun dad, why is that so bad?"

"Because it is! I need to protect you, Bruno, I don't want you ending up going deaf like your mother did! You are going to do as I say, okay? If that means no seeing your friends anymore, then no seeing your friends anymore. "

Bruno doesn't respond, tapping his foot in annoyance against the ground outside the principal's office.

"Bruno?"

"Fine," he growls, though it's not like he's actually going to. His father might be overprotective, but he can't control everything about his life down to the smallest detail. Last week it was no eating candy because he read somewhere that it could make him sick. This week it's no seeing his friends. _What's next? He can't leave his house anymore?_

"Come on Bruno," his dad orders, ushering him into the principal's office. He follows him inside like the obedient child his dad thinks he is.

Yet, his dad can't control him forever.

* * *

 **A/N:** These two were very fun, I hope you enjoyed them. I did change them both a little bit to fit some ideas I have for later in the story, so if their submitters have something they didn't like, just shoot me a PM. And I did leave a few things in the dark for you to wonder about, hehe :) But overall they were fun to write, and with that, we only have 5 more reapings to go!

Believe it or not, I'm still working on a blog. It's just going really slow. I'm hoping to have it out by the end of the tribute intros, but no promises.

Tell me what you think and I'll see you in District 8!

paper :)

PS: 101 reviews in 8 chapters is amazingggggg! I love you all!


	10. District Eight: Forget About It

_District Eight Intros: Forget About It_

* * *

 _Beckett Lock, 14._

 _District Eight "Female"._

* * *

"Are you ready for your first day of work today?" Their father asks as they slowly eat their breakfast. Around the table, her mother, father, and four older brothers sit, all stuffing their food down their faces before they have to go off to the factory for a long day of work.

Beckett doesn't respond, keeping their head down and their brown eyes locked on their runny eggs. They poke at them with their fork, swirling the small yellow bits around and around until they create a watery mush. Normally, eggs are their favorite meal: the runnier the better. Beckett normally gobbles them up in seconds, then asks their parents for seconds and gobbles those up too. And they're a growing girl—er rather, a growing kid; they're only 14 but already taller than most kids in their class. Beckett towers above them at a tall 5'6", a head taller than most of the boys and a few inches taller than most of the girls. The doctor told them they were going to get even taller, he told them they'd be the tallest girl in their class by far.

 _The tallest girl._ If only he knew.

"Oh, I'm so excited for you sweetheart! My little girl is growing up so fast!" Beckett's mother squeals happily, coming from behind and enveloping her child in a tight hug. Beckett coughs and tries to pull away. However, they don't get very far; their mother's grip is strong, and she only pulls Beckett closer.

"Come on Mom, I told you not to call me my little girl anymore," Beckett replies, rolling their eyes in what their parents have lately been referring to as "teenage angst".

Beckett's mother pouts. "But you're my baby!"

Age wasn't what they are talking about, but Beckett doesn't correct their mother. They are referring to gender and the fact that they no longer feel like a girl. Or, they don't feel like a girl today. Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't.

However, they can't tell their mother that. Beckett knows deep down in their heart that their mother would accept them for whatever they were: girl, boy, genderfluid—heck, if Beckett even told their mother they felt like a tiger today, their mother would probably be okay with it. However, there's a small chance that maybe she won't, and Beckett can't take that chance.

Last year they heard about a kid their age who got kicked out of her house for being transgender. Her parents disowned her, and a few weeks later, she died of starvation, left alone on the streets to fend for herself. Eight, along with many of the other factory districts, is still backward in the fact that most of the population still only believes there is only one gender: the gender one is born with. So no one helped the poor girl, casting her out like she was something less than human.

Beckett can't let that be them.

Outside, the first work bell rings. Beckett feels the knot in their stomach tighten and they look up at the clock hanging on the wall. It reads 7:50, ten minutes before all the factory workers are due inside the building for morning roll call. They're nervous; they've heard from stories that the factories are a dangerous place. People go to work one morning with five fingers and come out with four; girls with long hair have been scalped painfully by the spinning machines. Beckett touches their head, happy that they cut most of their hair off last year. Now they only have a pixie cut. At the time, their mother had been livid that they chopped off their beautiful golden curls, but now she's probably thankful that her child won't have to worry about that.

"Time to go!" Her second oldest brother Oliver chimes, shoveling one last spoonful of eggs down his throat before burping loudly.

"Ew, gross dude," Hugh, another one of her brothers, scoffs. "You got to do it like this." He then proceeds to burp loudly, his entire throat rumbling.

"Nice one, let me try!" Fredrick, her third oldest brother, chortles. He then burps too, even louder than Hugh's.

Their oldest brother begins to burp too, and soon, all they are all burping. Everyone except Beckett that is. They normally join in with them, but today, they're far too nervous to even hiccup. Their throat feels dry as a desert and they feel like they can barely breathe, air going out but not in.

"Come on Beckett, you want to try one?" Hugh prods.

They shake their head mutely, looking back down at their shuffling feet.

"Oh come on sis, at least try once! I just want to prove that I'm the best burper in the entire Lock family, and I can't do that unless everyone goes!"

Beckett shakes their head again, wishing that he wouldn't call them sis anymore.

"Stop it!" Their mother exclaims, slamming her hands down on the table to get their attention. "It's time to go to work! You don't want Beckett to be late on her first day, right?"

"Right!" They all chorus in unison, then Fredrick comes and grabs Beckett's hand, pulling them to their feet.

"Oh, don't look so excited," he teases, giving them a wild smile. "I mean, it's not like you're going to have to go to work every day now until you die!"

Beckett manages to smile slightly, though they still feel the butterflies fluttering around in their stomach. Fredrick always makes them smile, even if his jokes are bad and at times, a bit depressing if you really thought about it.

"Yeah, you only have to work like 10,000 more days!" Hugh adds. "It's not _that_ bad!"

"And if anyone tries to beat you up, we'll sock em' right in the balls," Oliver exclaims.

"Right in the balls! Then they won't be coming back any time soon!"

"Yeah, no one beats up our baby sister," their oldest brother Sal says.

Beckett nods their head weakly as if they feel assured now. However, they don't. They wish they didn't have to go to work and spend all day climbing under the machines that could rip their hair off in less time than they could blink. They wish they could go back to school and see their friends again. They wish they weren't so poor that all five of them had to work just to bring home enough money to barely put food on the table.

And most of all, they wish that they could tell their brothers that sometimes, they want to be called brother too.

* * *

 _Gareth Emory, 18._

 _District Eight Male._

* * *

From even his earliest memories, Gareth can't remember a time where his house didn't look like a shrine.

Scattered around are pictures of a little girl with dark caramel skin and even darker, almost raven black hair. However, she has eyes so bright they paled in comparison to even the son; it reminds him of a shining moon on a pitch black starless night. She's always smiling in every picture. There is one of her sitting in a garden of flowers with vibrant petals; another of her, this picture was taken in winter, smiling next to a poorly made snowman. Then there is one of her in the summer, swimming with a blue bathing suit in a little bin his dad had made into a kiddie pool, and there is yet another picture of her leaping into a pile of crunchy brown leaves in the fall. The pictures of the little girl line almost every spot on the mantel, that's how many of them there are. And there are more on the walls too, a handful in his kitchen, one on the dining room table, and a pair on the dresser in his father's room. He even has one in his room, buried in a drawer somewhere under all his books. In all of them, she's no more than 6, just a meek little child who still had yet to lose her baby fat.

Now, she'd be 24.

He watches his adoptive father standing a few feet away. The balding man is staring blankly at one of these pictures, his eyes glazed and foggy like dirtied glass.

"Akuji?" Gareth whispers, his voice soft and smooth like velvet.

The man doesn't turn, continuing to stare silently at the frame. Gareth can feel the pain radiating off him. He knows how much he loved Gara; he loved her so much that he named his adoptive after her. Even after eighteen years, he knows it still hurts him almost as much as when he watched his wife and daughter get jumped in an ally, helpless to do anything but watch them die before his very eyes. And Gareth can't replace them. He knows he can't. He's only a child Akuji found on the streets, not even wanted by his own parents. _How could he replace two people who meant the world to Akuji if he didn't even mean the world to his own parents?_

He doesn't quite know, but all he can do is try his best and hope that he can fill the irreplaceable hole in the man's heart.

"Akuji?" He asks again, a bit louder this time.

The man jumps in place, Gareth startling him slightly. The eighteen-year-old boy swears under his breath, cursing himself for scaring his dad like that. He should know better than to sneak up on him. He should.

 _Damnit Gareth, why do you have to be so stupid sometimes?_

"What?" Akuji questions, turning around a furrowing his brow at his adopted son. It sounds harsher than it's meant to be, but it's Gareth's fault, he shouldn't have snuck up on him so suddenly like that.

"Uh—did you retrieve any more literary works for me?"

"Retrieve? Literary works?" Akuji teases, his lips curving into a slight smile. "Is today Vocabulary Tuesday again?" He always makes fun of Gareth for using big words that don't quite sound right—retrieve instead of bring, literary works instead of books or magazines. Yet, Akuji has gotten used to his eloquent language over the years, unlike most people, he actually can understand what Gareth means when he talks. Around other people, the boy is just a fumbling mess of mammoth words that don't quite make sense in the context of his sentences.

Gareth smirks. "Every day is Vocabulary Tuesday for me. Is that sentence fragment more your speed, or rather, distance over time?"

Akuji laughs. "Show off. And yes, that first sentence was more my distance over time, thank you."

Then, he reaches into his bag and tosses him a book. Gareth lets out a squeak as it flies through the air toward him. He feels his heart drop and ducks out of the way just in time: the book clatters to the floor with a thud. Akuji laughs again.

"I see you are still scared of flying objects," he teases.

"I speculate where I received that trait from," Gareth retorts playfully, his smile wide.

Akuji smirks. While they may be joking with each other now, the things they are smiling about aren't really jokes. Gareth knows his adoptive father has suffered from PTSD ever since the rest of his family was jumped, and he's passed some of that paranoia onto his son. Whenever Gareth is in a new environment, he needs to know all his surroundings and will get nervous to the point of twitching if he can't. Sometimes his fears are so bad he can't fall asleep at night; he'll be staring at the blank ceiling for hours flinching at every bump in the night and creak of the stairs. And death—it's not even something the two men bring up. They fear it so much they try to forget it exists.

Bending down, Gareth picks up the book with his left hand. He turns it over so he can read the title on the spine of the book: The Physics of Quantum Mechanics.

"Quantum mechanics?" He scoffs, looking up at his adoptive father with a hung jaw.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like it. You always told me you were bored with regular physics anyway, so I thought I'd give you something a bit more challenging. You've been reading that same book for months anyway, and it's all you ever do. I thought I'd give you an upgrade."

"Was it expensive?"

"Maybe," Akuji grins. "But anything for my only son."

Gareth steps forward and wraps his father up in a warm hug. "You're a tremendous father," he whispers.

"I know," Akuji replies jokingly. "And you can just say good, you walking-thesaurus."

Then he pulls away, and Akuji heads into the kitchen to make dinner while Gareth retreats to his room to start reading his new book. Reading is one of his only hobbies; Akuji made him so paranoid he gets scared to leave the house, so he doesn't. He has a private tutor that comes to his home four times a week and he reads almost everything he can get his hands on: novels, non-fiction works, textbooks, and even dictionaries when there is nothing else left. That's how he has such a massive vocabulary. He just reads and reads and reads until there is nothing else left to read. Then he reads some more.

When he enters his room, he does a quick sweep of the surroundings to make sure everything is as he left it and there's nothing missing or new. Although he was only gone a few minutes, he doesn't know what could have happened in that time. For all he knows, a burglar could have snuck through his window and stolen his stuff, or a murderer could have waltzed in and was waiting in the closet for the perfect moment to pounce and stab him to death.

He feels a cold shiver run down his spine as he does a quick sweep of the closet, making sure that there are in fact no murderers waiting inside. As usual, it is empty. He smiles and takes a seat on his bed, prying open the front cover of the book and flipping to the first page.

 _The Physics of Quantum Mechanics,_ the title reads.

He smiles and soon enough, he's lost in the pages of the book. There, there are no murders in the closet and no burglars climbing through windows. In his book—lost in his own mind, he's completely safe from everything bad in the world that can hurt him and Akuji.

However, while books may give him a quick escape from reality, the painful truth is still waiting for him right when he turns the last page.

The reaping is tomorrow, and death may be closer than he thinks.

 _Way_ closer than he thinks.

* * *

 **A/N:** _A shorter chapter, but I also finished the D9 and D10 reapings due to having a week off and a TON of motivation from somewhere that I wish I could find again. Yay for strange spurts of motivation! I honestly don't think this is one of my best chapters, and Beckett was the first non-binary tribute I've written so they were a bit difficult for me, and I had a hard time coming up with scenes for them both. But some characters in my last story I had an impossible time writing at first but got much easier as they went (Both my final two for Crimson I had a hard time writing at first, for example) so I'm sure these characters will be somewhat like that and get easier as they go._

 _Tell me what you think though, and I'm sure I accidentally called Beckett she or her somewhere in their section so sorry in advance. Gareth I did kind of make over the top, butwhateveritsmystoryandimdoingwhatiwant._

 _Expect the D9 intros next Saturday around the same time!_

 _paper :)_


	11. District Nine: Life Isn't Fair

_District Nine Intros: Life Isn't Fair_

* * *

 _Eliora Abraham, 16._

 _District Nine Female._

* * *

She inhales deeply, letting the thick white smoke fill her lungs.

"I wish you'd quit it with the smoking El," her girlfriend Tizrah murmurs, leaning back on the small hay bale they're sitting on just outside Eliora's uncle's farm.

"Stop this?" she giggles, pursing her lips into a small, round O shape and leaning forward into Tizrah's face. Then, she removes the cigarette from her mouth and blows forward, a thick, white stream of smoke hitting the girl's pale face. Tizrah tries to maintain a stern look but fails miserably, breaking into a giggly fit of laughter.

"Yeah, that. It's going to kill you, you know. All the studies say it."

"Fuck those studies," Eliora replies, rolling her pale blue eyes and sticking the cigarette back in her mouth. "A lot of things can kill me. Stepping out of my house can kill me. So should I stay home all the time? No."

Tizrah sighs, resting her head on Eliora's shoulder. "You're so dumb sometimes, you know that?"

She smiles. "Yeah, I know."

Then they sit in silence for a while, watching Eliora's uncle and aunt water the fields in the back of their house. Eliora should be helping but she isn't—her rule is if her spoiled-rotten-good-for-nothing cousin Adira is off doing something idiotic with her cool and rebellious boyfriend, then she doesn't need to help either. But when her aunt yells at them for not helping them with the crops, she's always the first one who gets blamed. She knows that her aunt favors her own children over her, but Eliora can't help that her mother ran off with some rich conman and left her with no other relatives but them. She knows they love her, but it's hard having one more mouth to feed, especially one that you didn't ask for.

But life isn't fair for anyone. At least they _had_ parents who cared about them and didn't abandon them for some guy they barely knew. That's more then she can say.

"I think I might leave soon," Tizrah mutters, looking up at Eliora with wide eyes.

Eliora feels her stomach drop. She hates it when Tizrah leaves. She always feels like she's doing better stuff without her, and she's a pretty girl too; everywhere she goes Tizrah always has people staring. _What if she found someone she liked more than Eliora? What if she cheated on her?_

"Where do you need to go?" Eliora questions inquisitively.

Tizrah shrugs. "Oh, nowhere really."

"Then why are you leaving?" she asks, maybe a bit too urgently.

Her girlfriend blinks, a bit startled at how fast she asked that question. "Uh—I just thought I might catch up with some people I haven't seen in a while is all."

"What people?"

Tizrah giggles, rolling her head back and off Eliora's shoulder. "Why so many questions all of a sudden?" she asks, her tone suggesting a hint of playfulness. However, her smile is beginning to fade, her lips curving downward slightly into a frown.

The brunette looks away. "I—I was just curious is all," Eliora stutters, though, her sudden interest isn't just curiosity. Rather, it was a desire to know—or better put, a constant _need_ to know. _What if she was seeing another girl? Why did she just divert the question? Was she cheating on her? Was that why she didn't want to answer the question?_

"Oh—okay," Tizrah mutters, her normal sunny smile returning. "It's my friend Jane and her boyfriend, Mitt."

"Okay, well, do you really _need_ to go?" Eliora asks, blinking her puppy dog eyes at her girlfriend. If she makes Tizrah feel guilty for abandoning her, then maybe she'll stay. It's a tactic she uses a lot when she wants people to do what she wants. "I'd miss you a lot. And I like spending time with you. It makes my day when I get to see you smile."

"Well—" Eliora begins, trailing off after a second, her jaw hanging open. "I don't need to. But—"

Eliora cut her off, not letting her finish. "Then stay."

The girl nods, resting her head back on Eliora's shoulder. "Alright, just for a little bit though. I still want to see Jane and Mitt."

She sighs, her chest slumping slightly. _Is she not good enough for Tizrah? Why doesn't she want to spend time with her anymore? Are Mitt and Jane more fun than she is? Does Tizrah hate her?_

"I'll come then," Eliora suggests, not wanting to be left out. "That way, you can see all of us together."

"Oh—okay," her girlfriend replies, looking a bit disappointed. "But you don't even know them. Don't you think it will be a little awkward?"

"Nah," she lies. "I love meeting new people." Another lie. "I'm sure they'll like me." A lot of people didn't get along quite well with her; she drove people away more than anything else, even when she put in an effort. "And you always said I should get out more, right?"

"I guess. . ." Tizrah mutters, trailing off again at the end. After some time, she speaks again. "Yeah, I guess it will be good for you. You'll like them too, they're super nice."

"Then it's settled!" she chimes. "W—"

The loud roaring of a car engine cuts her off. It rumbles like thunder in the distance, growing closer and louder with each passing second. Her and Tizrah glance up at the same time to see an old car speed down the long dirt road that leads to her house, kicking dust everywhere. It swerves closer until it jolts to a halt a few feet in front of them, dirt flying in their faces. Eliora coughs violently, pulling the cigarette out of her mouth and rolling her eyes.

"Show off," she mutters too quietly for anyone but herself to hear.

"Oh-my-gosh, you didn't tell me your cousin has a car!" Tizrah yelps excitedly, leaping to her feet and running forward to inspect the car. "That's so cool! I heard there's only a few of them left in all the districts, let alone Nine. I w—"

"It's not my cousin's," Eliora cuts her off, twisting her face into a grimace. "It's her _boyfriend's._ "

As if on cue, the dust begins to settle and the car door flies open. Out steps Hanover, Adira's boyfriend. He's wearing a black leather jacket and tall boots with ripped skinny jeans that are at least two sizes too small. They're tight in areas she _doesn't_ want to see and Eliora feels like she's going to gag. She rolls her eyes again, not impressed by the show Adira's boyfriend is putting on for them. However, Tizrah has completely fallen for it, staring at Hanover like he is an immortal god with infinite power.

"Son of a bitch, you ruined my cigarette," she grumbles, throwing it down on the ground and stepping on it with her boot.

"Well you shouldn't be smoking anyway," she hears a familiar voice rasp, and a second later Adira appears from the other side of a car, a wicked grin plastered on her face.

"Exactly!" Tizrah exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. "That's what I've been trying to tell her for months!"

Eliora growls, giving her girlfriend an icy glare. "Are you taking her side?"

The girl freezes, then shakes her head back and forth quickly, denying it. "No—I was just saying—"

"She was just saying that you're dumb as rocks," Adira jeers, her sly smile as wide as ever.

"Like you aren't, running around with that wannabee rebel," Eliora retorts, rolling her pale blue eyes yet again. "You're so spoiled you don't even see that you got it good. I hope you get caught and see that you're the dumber one."

Her cousin's boyfriend steps in the middle of them, wrapping his arms around both Adira and Tizrah. "Ladies, ladies. You don't have to f—

Eliora yelps, yanking Hanover's arm off of Tizrah and pulling her back toward her. "Get your hands off of her, you filthy slob!"

"Don't touch him either!" Adira exclaims, stepping forward and giving her cousin a hard shove. Eliora's caught off guard and stumbles backward, tripping over her own two feet and falling flat on her back.

Tizrah squeaks in surprise. "I—I—I think it's best if I leave."

"Stay!" Eliora barks, scrambling to her feet and running back toward Adira. Clenching her fist, she prepares to hit her bratty cousin square in the nose. Adira tries to duck away but Eliora is too fast, her knuckles colliding with the hard bone on the bridge of her nose.

 _Crack!_

Clutching the spot where Eliora hit her, Adira begins to wail like a banshee. Hanover hovers over her, gripping her shoulders and telling her she's okay. Red blood runs down her cousin's lips and chin, dripping onto her pretty white dress. Tizrah is crying a few feet away, her head buried in her hands.

"Who is the dumbass now?" Eliora roars, standing triumphantly over the wailing girl. However, this might not have been the smartest thing to do. Adira begins to wail louder, this time for her mother.

 _"MOMMMM! MOOMMMM!"_

All of a sudden, her aunt comes out of nowhere and grabs her daughter's blood-stained face. Tizrah's now having a complete breakdown behind her, while Hanover has been pushed aside and is now sitting on the ground wondering what just happened.

"Did you do this Eliora?" Her aunt asks, turning around to face her with blazing eyes and flaring nostrils.

"Yes, but—"

"Go to your room! Tizrah, leave!"

"But—" Eliora protests.

"I don't care! Get out of my sight now!"

"She hit me first!"

"And you hit her last! Go!"

She sighs in defeat and turns to kiss her girlfriend goodbye. However, the pale girl is already gone, slipped through her fingers like tiny grains of sand.

* * *

 _Lennox Orseni, 15._

 _District Nine Male._

* * *

He stands outside his best friend's house with a giant grin plastered on his freckled face. His two arms are folded behind his back: in his hands is a small box with a jingling trinket inside. He taps his foot impatiently as he waits, staring at the white door with glowing hazel eyes.

Then, the door flies open and he looks up to see the not-so-surprised face of his best friend, Kari.

"Surprise!" he exclaims, his toothy smile growing even wider.

She doesn't return it, blinking at him with a straight face. "Surprise? You come to my house every day you idiot."

Lennox's smile doesn't fade despite her abrasive comment. "Well, today is different! Do you know what day it is today?"

"Uh, October 10th?" she asks, placing her hands on her hips. She doesn't look amused.

"Yes, and what day might that be?" he asks, trying to lead her on.

"Uh, Saturday?"

"No silly, it's your birthday!" he exclaims, jutting his hand out from behind his back and showing her the blank brown box that was in his hand. Despite being from a wealthier family in Nine—they're still poor compared to other districts, and the plain box is all he can afford. He saw a pretty one with green and blue stripes at the market but it was a few pennies too expensive, so the brown one had to do.

She smiles slightly, grabbing the box from his hand. "You know you didn't have to get me anything," she mutters, staring down at the gift. "I don't really like birthdays either. It just means I'm one year closer to dying."

Lennox shook his head back and forth vehemently. "Don't think of it like that. Think of it as being one year closer to living the rest of your amazing life."

"My amazing life?" she gawks. "Here? In Nine?"

Lennox nods his head. He knows what she means—in the doldrums on District Nine, what life was amazing? People do backbreaking work for little to no pay until they physically can't do that work anymore, then they sit in their slummy house and wait to die. That's the average person's life here. However, he knows Kari isn't average. She's intelligent and witty, and Lennox knows she can do anything she sets her mind to.

"Yeah, you're going to have an amazing life. Even here. In District Nine, the place where dreams come true."

She snorts. "Now you're just being silly. So can I open this puppy up, or what?"

"Of course!" he exclaims. "I didn't just get that for you to stare at!"

Laughing, Kari twists the top of the small box off and lifts it up, reveling the contents inside. However, her smile fades when she lays her eyes on what's inside.

"A necklace? You've known me for your entire life and you got me a necklace?"

"Not just any kind of necklace," Lennox chortles, ignoring her obvious disappointment. "It's a friendship necklace. I have one too, and when you put them together, they connect! Isn't that cool?"

Lifting the chain up, Kari narrows her eyes and stares at it as if it's some kind of foreign object. She twists her head around and examines it from different angles, then yanks on it to see if it's strong. It is. Finally, she places it in the palm of her hand and then chucks it into the bushes a few feet away.

Lennox's mouth drops as he watches the gift he spent his entire three months allowance on soar through the air and land in a pile of mud.

"I don't need a stupid necklace to know that you're my best friend," she declares. "You just being here is enough."

He grits his teeth, driving his anger deeper inside him until he can't feel it anymore. Then, he smiles like nothing is wrong. "Yeah, you're right. We don't need necklaces. It's not like they were expensive or anything, so it's fine. It's fine."

"Okay great!" Kari exclaims, placing the empty box back in her pocket and leaping outside. "So, what super fun birthday activities do you have planned for me today?"

Lennox smiles again, trying to place the rejected gift in the back of his mind. Every year since they were six, the two of them have planned surprise activities for the other on their birthday. Some years they've been hits, and some years they've completely blown—just like his gift. But he's determined to make this year extra special for Kari; she only turns fifteen once, after all.

"Well, I can't tell you all of them, or I'd spoil all the fun for you! But we're going tractor racing first!"

Kari buzzes with excitement, which makes Lennox's heart soar. He loves seeing his friend happy. To him, making others happy it's one of the best feelings in the world. It's like giving a gift, but this time, they actually like it.

 _It's fine Lennox,_ he tells himself silently. _Remember, it's not about you. It's about Kari. You can earn that money back some other day._

"So, who else is going to this tractor race?" Kari asks as they walk across her front lawn and start down the sidewalk.

"Silas," he says, his face beginning to flush pink. Kari notices and breaks out into a fit of laughter, but she's known for a while he's had a crush on the older boy. After all, it's not a secret he wears his heart on his sleeve. When he came out to his dad that he was bisexual last year, his dad just laughed and said he could tell ever since Lennox came out of the womb. When Lennox is happy people can tell; when he's sad people can tell; when he's excited, well—people can tell. The only thing people can't see is his anger, which he buries deep inside and tries to forget until it all bubbles up and festers over. But that doesn't happen often. It's only happened three times in the time he can remember—all times of which he tries to forget.

" _Ooohhh,_ " Kari teases, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder. "You going to make a move today?"

Lennox turns even redder. "Stop it!" he chides, folding his arms over his chest defensively and taking a step away from her. "And no. Today is supposed to be about you, I'm not going to come and make it all about me."

His best friend giggles. "Yeah, you know I like it that way. I love it when people treat me like a victor."

"Yeah, I for sure know that," he teases, rolling his warm hazel eyes. "So, what did your parents get you so far?"

"Well, no necklaces," she laughs, though to Lennox, it's not a joke.

 _It doesn't matter,_ he tells himself.

Well, if he's still stuck on the matter, it kind of does.

* * *

 **A/N:** Today is the one year anniversary of me publishing Crimson! Time really flies; it's pretty unbelievable honestly. I certainly didn't think I'd be here, writing the sequel to a completed and almost 190k+ word story! But I'm here, and already at 120 reviews for this one! You all are amazing and I can't thank you enough :) Keep it up!

These characters were fun, and tell me what you think. D10 should be out next week, but I am busy next weekend and I might not have the wifi to publish it where I'll be, so we'll see. But still expect it Saturday, though it might be a few days later. Just a heads up.

It's 70 degrees and feeling happy,

paper :)


	12. District Ten: Runaways

_District Ten Introductions: Runaways_

* * *

 _Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Ten Female._

* * *

It's payday at the Community Home in District Ten.

To an outsider, payday sounds like something positive; a day where perhaps, the girls get a little money for being good all year, like an allowance almost. Or maybe it's money for helping out at one of the local ranches, a payment for milking the cows during the long hot summers when no one else wants to do it. They imagine that after the girls get paid, they run to town in their dirt-stained dresses, flocking to the local drugstore to buy candy or to the cinema down the street that plays Capitol-approved movies for only a few pennies on Sunday mornings.

However, they couldn't be more wrong. Rather, the girls have to pay Matron Orchards, the owner of The Community Home, five cents a month to live there. It's very illegal, but here in the slums of Ten, no one cares about what's legal and what's not. Set up by the districts during the rebellion, each district's Community Home is supposed to be a free place where children can come when they have no one else to turn to. Most of the children there are either abandoned, runways, or have dead parents. _Who in their right mind thinks they of all people will have the money to pay?_

But they have to, or they can live on the streets and starve to death. Sometimes, Marguerite thinks the latter option would be better.

"Marguerite, where is your money?" Matron Orchards questions, her dark eyes as sharp as daggers as she stares down at the short girl.

"I didn't get any this week," the young girl mutters quietly, her voice no louder than that of a mouse's. Normally, she pickpockets to earn her rent. However, this week she got caught and barely got away with her five fingers intact.

Matron Orchards blinks, placing her hands on her hips. "That's not a correct answer," she rasps. "I'll ask you one more time. _Where. Is. Your. Money_?"

Marguerite gulps, looking down at her shuffling feet. She knows what happens if she can't pay. It's the streets for her, assured death if she can't scoff up five cents. She can't let that happen. She's a survivor, and she doesn't give up easily.

Next to her, Tammie, a wide-eyed girl a few years older than her is counting her money, plopping it down in her palm.

"Marguerite?"

No answer. _Clink. Clink. Clink._ She watches Tammie out of the corner of her eye.

"Marguerite?"

Suddenly, she jolts her arm to the left, snatching the coins out of the girl's hand. Before Tammie has a chance to react, Marguerite thrusts her palm full of pennies out toward Matron Orchards. The woman smiles, scooping the pennies out of the short girl's hand and dropping them into her pocket.

"Hey, those are mine!" Tammie screeches.

Matron Orchards just laughs, waving her hand to dismiss Marguerite. "Well, Marguerite was the one who gave them to me. Now Tammie, where is your monthly payment?"

Her housemate begins to cry, but Marguerite doesn't care. Here, it's survival of the fittest. She's learned throughout her short yet unfair life that the world won't help her, so she needs to help herself. Morals come second; her own survival comes first. She should feel bad for sabotaging another girl—a child, more specifically—but she doesn't. She doesn't feel anything anymore. It's all just numb.

Her mother's last words to her ring through her head: "Stay secret, stay hidden, stay safe. And most importantly of all, stay alive."

That's all she was doing. Just merely staying alive in a world that's wanted her dead for as long as she can remember: her earliest memory is of her mother being dragged through her house by peacekeepers, screaming and kicking, struggling to no avail to get free. Her second is of her running—running, running, running. Through her backyard, through the long grass, through the miles and miles of rolling hills and cattle farms she ran. Her third is of gunshots: two quick pangs, so short and fleeting one could have missed them if they blinked. Yet, she didn't blink. She heard them and despite being only four years old, she knew what they meant.

She exits the room, heading into the common room where the dozen or so girls who live in the Community Home normally congregate to play cards or board games in their free time. Most of them are there now, singing songs and playing hand games in a circle. When Marguerite first arrived at the home, they invited her to join them, but they've long given up trying to get her to play. She always declined, then went into a corner and read her books alone: exactly way she liked it. Even when her parents were alive, Marguerite had always been shy; she's an observer and not an instigator, watching from the sidelines like a spectator as the world moves around her. Most think a trait like this would be a vice, but so far in her life, it's been a virtue. She's able to see things other people can't and pick up on cues so subtle most others would miss. It helps her steal, and most importantly, it helps her stay alive. Just like her mother told her to.

The rough bricks scrape against her back as she lets her legs fall from beneath her and slides down the wall into a sitting position. Then, she turns back to the corner and counts two bricks to the left and three bricks up from the floor. With her little fingers, Marguerite wiggles the red brick to make sure it's the right one, then slides it out of its spot. Nestled inside the dark hole in the wall is a small green book with tattered edges and a fraying cover. She pulls it out and begins to read, letting the world around her fade to grey as she is enveloped in the words.

However, a few minutes later, her fantasy is cut short by the high-pitched nasally voice of one of her housemates, Tammie.

"Weird book girl stole my money!" Tammie shrieks, sounding more like a banshee than an actual girl.

Marguerite huffs, pulling her nose out of her book and staring right up into the flaming eyes of the older girl. A few other girls stand around her, their arms crossed and their gazes stern. Marguerite stares at them for a second but then turns her nose back into her book, ignoring the crowd.

"Yeah, give it back bug eyes," one of the other girls demands.

She continues to ignore them, flipping the page of her book.

"Yeah, bug eyes," Tammie jeers. "No one wants you here anyway. You just steal everyone's money and you don't care about anyone else but yourself."

Snorting, Marguerite continues to keep her eyes on her book. "Like you're any better," she retorts smoothly.

Tammie growls, lunging forward and ripping the book out of Marguerite's hands.

"Hey!" Marguerite yelps, thrusting her arm forward in an attempt to grab it back. However, Tammie is twice her size and has much longer arms then her; at only four feet, four inches and very underweight, Marguerite's arms are short, stunted, and frail. She can't reach the book. Tammie holds it up in the air like a trophy, smiling wickedly.

"I guess I'm not much different," Tammie jests, twirling it around above her head. "If you want the book back, give me back my money. After you do, maybe I'll think about giving this back to you."

"Or not," one of the other girls snickers, and they all giggle.

"You better do more than think about it," Marguerite hisses, leaping to her feet. She glares up at Tammie, her dark eyes blazing like a wildfire. Tammie just smiles gleefully back at her, continuing to twirl the book around in her hand a few feet out of Marguerite's reach.

"Oh yeah, midget? Who is going to make me? _You?_ "

All the girls giggle again, and Marguerite rolls her eyes. "You don't want to see me fight you," she retorts, puffing out her chest and standing her ground.

"Oh yeah? Why? Because you'd be so hurt it'd make me sick to just look at the even more demented thing you are?" Tammie asks, holding the book above her head like a carrot on a string or a worm on the end of a hook.

"No, you don't want to see me fight you because after you wouldn't have any more eyes to see with."

The crowd of girls goes silent, and Marguerite is the one smirking now. She takes a step forward and brushes past them, heading toward the door of the room.

"Then come back and fight!" One of the girls screams after her. "Show me what you got! Don't be a coward bug eyes!"

Yet, she's not. Marguerite isn't stupid; she doesn't fight fights she can't win. Fighting three girls twice her size might be brave, but it isn't smart. Plus, the book was just a rental from District Ten's library anyway. She can get another tomorrow, and another the day after that. Tammie can take and take them away, but they'll keep coming back. Matron Orchards can steal and steal her money, but she'll find a way to get more. The world can try and try to kill her, but she'll be there the next day when the sun rises and there when the sun sets.

She's an unkillable fricking cockroach, and there's no way the world's getting rid of her.

* * *

 _Braxton "Brax" Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

They say cowards die many times before their deaths. Every time they run from their fears, they lose a little bit of themselves. When they refuse to face their problems head-on, a small part of them dies—first their pride, then their integrity, and then everything else goes.

If that saying is true, then he's lost a lot.

Braxton treads on the greasy floor of the slaughterhouse, watching as the dead pigs dangle from their feet. A small part of him thinks they're going to spring to life and begin to squeal like excited piglets, but he's been doing this job long enough to know that they're not; the skinned animals are as dead as doornails, their souls far from this sweltering and sticky room. He wishes his was too. Hopefully, only a few more weeks and he'll have enough money to get away from this hellhole; he'll buy himself an actual apartment and be able to live like a real human being for the first time in months. Rooming with the pigs will be a thing of the past: his future is filled with beds, sofas and a little tiny kitchen where he'll start his restaurant out of. He can see the name of it up in lights, shining brightly in District Ten's central square.

 _Brax's BBQ,_ it'll read. When his parents see it, they'll finally be proud of him. For once in his life, he won't be a disappointment. He won't be the kid who after seven generations of dedicated farmers, ruined it all. He won't be some coward runaway who refused to carry on the family tradition. Instead, he'll be a star.

"Braxton!" His boss yells from the floor above him. "Where were those ribs I asked for ten minutes ago?"

Braxton sighs, grabbing his machete and hurrying over to the carving table where a dead pig is already laying, it's belly tilted upwards to the dark vaulted ceiling. It hasn't been skinned yet. "Sorry boss, I'll be right on it!"

He hears a grumble upstairs but ignores it, focusing his attention back on the pig. Braxton has always hated this part of the job; he's never been a fan of blood or killing. While the pig isn't alive, to him, it might as well be. Its eyes are still there, rolled back into its head. They stare up at him like daggers, cutting a hole through his skull.

 _Please don't hurt me,_ the imaginary pig voice in his head pleads.

He frowns. "Sorry pig, it's just part of the job," he responds before realizing he's talking to a dead pig. However, being cooped up down here in this windowless and hot room for upwards of twelve hours a day can make even the sanest person crazy.

Then, he slices the pig's stomach open and tries to block everything else that happens after that out of his head.

He wishes he didn't have to do this job. He really does. _However, what did he expect when he ran away from his house with nothing but the clothes on his back?_ He's always been a realist; he knew life on the streets would be hard. Yet, he didn't think three months later he'd be sleeping in some creepy 40-year old's basement with his pet pigs, then have to wake up the next morning and slice up the very things he calls his roommates. Marcus was the only person who would give him the job though, so he either had to do it or end up starving on the streets to death. He thought this option was better.

Maybe he should just give up and tell his parents he'll just be a farmer and wants to come home.

"No—no Braxton. You've already given up way too much in your life to give up again. You said this was the last time you'd run away from your problems. You are turning over a new leaf, remember? You are sticking with this. No more running away. You're almost there, just a few more dollars and you'll be able to buy yourself your own apartment. Just a few more. That's not so hard pig, right? You'd stick with it if you were me, right? Right?"

 _Annnddd he is talking to the dead pig again._ Maybe this place really is making him crazy.

After slicing the pig up into bloody fragments, he takes the ribs and places them on top of a thick white paper wrap. Then, Braxton folds the paper around the ribs and ties it with a thick string.

"I got it, boss!" Braxton yells as he races up the steps.

"Took you long enough," Marcus retorts, rolling his eyes and snatching the package out of his hands.

"Maybe ya' should get another desperate kid off the street to replace this desperate kid ya got here," one of his coworkers, the illiterate Brenna responds. Then, she pokes him in the stomach with her bony finger. "Apparently this uns' not desperate enough to actually got some work ethic in em'."

"Agreed, maybe I should get a kid who _actually_ does work."

The hair on the back on Braxton's neck bristles. He hates it when other people talk about the fact that he ran away from home. He likes to pretend it never happened, but when someone else actually says it did, it solidifies the fact that his actions are reality, and he can't just forget about them even if he wants to. It makes him ashamed.

"Hey, can I go on break?" Braxton asks.

Marcus snorts. "Since when did I give you breaks?"

"I mean, you just said a second ago that you, quote, 'should get a kid who _actually_ does work'. If I'm not doing anything anyway, what's the difference if I take a break or not?" Braxton responds smugly, a sly grin creeping onto his face. Despite his dumb farmhand demeanor, he hears more then he lets on.

The nostrils on his boss's nose begin to fume. Out of nowhere, Marcus's hand jolts out toward him, his fingers trying to grab the collar of his shirt to pull him closer. However, Braxton is faster; he ducks out of the way of Marcus's hand just in time. The man lunges forward again to strike the young boy, but Brenna grabs his shoulder and pulls him back.

"Hey, hey, calm down boss," she says. "Ya' can't hit a kid, 'member? It's against some law they made, those people up in those big buildings in the Capitol. Some child safety somethin' or other, it's stupid, but it's law."

Marcus fumes, but steps backward and takes a deep breath. "Fine kid, fine. Go take your goddamn break, but you better be back before one or that law isn't going to matter, okay?"

Braxton smiles in response, then flies out from behind the counter and glides across the shop. In less than a second, he's out of the building, running down the street and letting the warm sunlight hit his pale skin. Soon he's at his friend Val's house, standing on her front doorstep with blood still covering his arms. He didn't have time to wash it off.

A few moments after he knocks, the tall blonde girl opens it and frown right when she sees him.

"Oh my god Braxton, is that blood?" She questions, her eyes going wide.

He quickly wipes it off his arm, smiling bashfully. "Yeah. . . it might be."

She lets out a small shriek, then pulls him inside with a strong tug. "We gotta yet you all washed up then! I still can't believe you're doing that awful job. You should really quit. I told you, you can stay with me if you'd like."

He shrugs, following her inside to the bathroom. "Thanks again, but you know I can't. I need to prove to my parents that I can do it on my own. And the job's just temporary—that is until I can get myself on my feet and start the restaurant. I'll be fine, I promise. Don't worry about me. And tell Russell and Marvin not to worry either, I'll be alright. The restaurant should be up and running soon."

"You're still on that?" Val asks, turning the faucet on.

"On what?"

"The restaurant."

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He responds, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Oh—I don't know," she replies, her voice getting softer as she trails off at the end. "It was just—you always are on something different. Last year it was your own breeding farm, the year before it was the leather boot making shop—"

"That's still a good idea!" He protests. "Maybe after I get my restaurant going, maybe I'll—"

"No more maybes," Val replied sternly, grabbing his arm and beginning to wash the thick blood off of it. "There have been too many maybes. You need to find something and stick to it Brax, you can't keep switching it up on yourself like this."

"But I'm not! I left my parents and the farm to start this, and I'm not giving up. This restaurant is it, I promise. It's the thing I was born to do."

Val nods her head, though doesn't look convinced. "I'm just worried about you," she mutters, lowering her chin. "You just have so many ideas and little motivation. Just tell me you'll finish this one, okay?"

"Okay, I promise. I promise."

But he's broken that promise before, and he knows somewhere deep inside he'll do it again. People don't change that easy.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Not much to say this week, but we only have TWO more intros to do until we get to the good stuff! Time really flies! Hope you liked these two, and this was already a long chapter so I'm not going to talk for much more and make it even longer._

 _See you next week,_

 _paper :)_


	13. District Eleven: Out of Place

_District Eleven Introductions: Out of Place_

* * *

 _Manisha Rollins, 15._

 _District Eleven Female._

* * *

She looks out on the bustling cafeteria, her lunch tray gripped tightly in her hands. Her light brown eyes scan the crowd for a place to sit, darting this way and that—trying to find an open seat a table where she at least knows someone. It's the first day of school and she doesn't want to sit alone all year like last year and the year before that. She knows better than anyone else that first impressions are everything, so if she doesn't want to be that weird kid with no friends, she needs to act now.

However, she already has an obvious disadvantage. In Eleven, racial divides that began hundreds of years ago, before Panem even existed, are still omnipresent. In the middle of the cafeteria is a line—not a real line of course but an imaginary line that everyone still sees despite it not being visible to the naked eye. To the left of that line, tables of white kids sit with their nicer clothes and expensive books, chatting loudly among themselves. Generally, they are richer than their darker skinned counterparts; Manisha doesn't quite know why, but she guesses it's because of the racial divides that began hundreds of years back when blacks were still slaves. The generous Panemian government liberated them when they overthrew America, a tyrannical country that existed in anarchy before the founding of their new and prosperous nation. But everyone knows that, it's written in every history textbook they've ever read. The founders of Panem freed the oppressed; Panem is a place where everyone is equal. Yet, from what Manisha can see, they maybe be equal, but not equal enough to share a lunch table with each other.

On the other side of the cafeteria is where the black kids sit, their skin darkened even further from working long days and nights in the orchards. There is an unspoken rule that at school the two races don't mix; blacks sit with blacks and whites sit with whites. There is very little intermingling.

Yet for Manisha, that's a problem. She's neither black or white but rather a mix of the two: her skin is brown like the dirt beneath her feet. The color of it alone makes her an outcast before she can even open her mouth; she's different so people automatically assume she's bad—a mistake—an anomaly—a weird exception to the unwritten rule that the two sides don't talk, let alone marry and have kids.

Taking a step forward, Manisha's eyes land on an empty seat next to one of her former classmates, Carly. The girl has light skin and dirty blonde hair that's tied back in a high ponytail and styled with a fancy scrunchy for the first day. The two of them have had a conversation before, and Carly has been nothing but nice to her, so Manisha decides to try there first.

Placing her try down on the table, Manisha takes a seat. A few of Carly's friends turn toward her and blink but say nothing. Manisha just smiles shyly and begins to eat.

"Hey Manisha, how was your summer?" Carly asks, her tone friendly, unlike some of the other girl's wary gazes.

"Good," she replies quietly, her heart beginning to race. _Someone was actually talking to her!_

"Did you do anything fun?"

Manisha feels her heart race even faster. She actually did do some fun things over the summer: she learned how to reroute the light in her room to perform different patterns and sequences when she pressed a button. It was really cool, but when she told that story to a boy in her homeroom, he just looked at her like she was some kind of freak and stopped talking to her. _Only people in District Three do weird nerdy stuff like that,_ he told her.

"Nothing really," Manisha replies instead, not wanting Carly to think she was some kind of weirdo like the boy in her homeroom thought she was. This is going well so far and she doesn't want to mess it up. It's better she says nothing then something odd.

"That's boring," Peony, one of the other girls at the table, responds bitterly. "We went down to the lake and went skinny dipping. I bet you didn't do anything as fun as that."

"Actually, I did! I went skinny dipping at the lake too!" Manisha exclaims, hoping her lie isn't too easy to detect. maybe if she says she skinny dipped like them, they'll think she's cool and they'll want to be her friend.

"Really?" Peony asks, raising an eyebrow. "When?"

"Uh—sometime in July," Manisha stutters, trying to make her lie vague but not too vague. Although she's not a big fan of lying, she does do it often in an attempt to try to "fit in" with the other kids at school. No one wants to hear her stories about her fixing random trinkets she found in the fields behind her house or the fact that she built her own television from scrap parts, so she just lies and says she climbs trees and runs around mindlessly like the rest of them. One time she told her parents about her lying and they told her just to be herself, but she doesn't really know what herself even is. She knows she's interested in technology, but here in Eleven you're considered odd if you like that stuff, so she just thinks that it's probably a phase she'll grow out of in a couple of months. Eventually, she'll probably like all the other stuff the other girls do—she's just a late bloomer is all. Or that's what she tells herself.

Peony narrows her eyes into small slits, snapping Manisha out of her trance. "Mhmm," she murmurs, then leans over and whispers something in the ear of the girl to the right of her. Then, she turns to her left and whispers the same phrase into another girl's' ear. Soon enough the secret is spreading the small table like wildfire—and for once, Manisha thinks she'll actually be able to hear it.

How naïve of her to actually think that this time will be any different.

When the secret gets to Carly, the telephone train stops, and all the girls giggle.

Manisha perks her ears, wanting to know what they are laughing about so badly. _Is it a funny joke? A secret crush on a boy? What? What is it?_

Too shy to ask them what they're laughing about, Manisha just giggles along with them in hopes that they'll include her in on the next one. Yet, when she begins to laugh all the girls immediately stop and stare at her like she's a mythological creature with two heads.

"What are you laughing at?" Peony questions, cocking her head to the side as if she's confused.

Manisha's eyes suddenly widen. "Oh—I—I—uh, overheard your joke. It was funny, so I laughe—"

"It wasn't a joke," the girl cuts her off, her pure and sweet-girl next door face instantly turning malignant.

Her cheeks turn as red as roses, and she looks away sheepishly. For a moment, everyone at the table is silent, and Manisha can feel ten pairs of eyes glaring at her, tearing searing holes through her skin. All she wants to do is curl up into a tiny ball and cry she's so embarrassed. She probably just ruined her chances with this entire friend group for the rest of the year—that is, if she even had a chance in the first place.

After a few moments of staring, Peony turns away. "So Equestria, how was your summer?"

The group of girls spring to life again, detailing to each other how fun their summer vacations were and how theirs's was more fun than anyone else's. Manisha tries to listen and hopes that they'll ask her another question, but Carly has already turned her back to her and is lost in conversation with another girl at the table. A while later she tries to ask Carly another question but the girl flat out ignores her. Manisha can tell because she saw how Carly flinched when she tapped her on the shoulder but went on talking like she never felt anything.

Attempting a few more times, the girls continue to ignore her. After a while, Manisha feels her shoulders slump in defeat, and she's done trying to get these girls to acknowledge her. Manisha then lowers her head and eats the rest of her lunch in silence, the girls beside her chatting like she wasn't even there. And she might as well not be.

It's not that she feels invisible. She knows people can see her; she sticks out like a sore thumb based on her appearance alone. Her hair is a poufy, curly mess and her skin isn't the same shade as anyone else in her class. Rather, Manisha just feels painfully visible yet entirely ignored—the one piece of the puzzle that doesn't quite fit in with the others.

* * *

 _Takei Sadeh, 17._

 _District Eleven Male._

* * *

They're in town today, buying bread for his birthday dinner they're having tonight. His two fathers stroll down the street, their fingers interlaced. A few people around them stare their way.

"Hey Tachell, why do you think they're staring at us?" he asks.

His brother shrugs his shoulders, a mischievous grin surfacing on his dark-skinned face. "I dunno, maybe because of your giant afro? If you don't want people staring, you should try brushing it for once."

Takei frowns, patting the giant lump of hair sitting atop his head. "Whatever," he mutters softly, his cheeks blushing a faint shade of red. "You know if I brush my hair it only gets worse. It's like an untamable beast."

Tachell snorts. "More like an untamable knot."

Rolling his eyes, Takei ignores his brother and continues to walk along the dirt path. He hates how he teases him all the time, but he knows it's what brothers do. But it's his birthday today, couldn't he at least go a bit lighter on him for one day?

They're almost at the market now, and the crowds of people thicken. It's the busiest place in District Eleven, which is why his fathers don't let him come here often. Or more accurately, never let him come here. The only reason they let him come was because he'd been begging them for months, and they kept replying maybe on your birthday. Well now it _was_ his birthday, and despite their obvious reluctant eye-exchanges, they let him accompany them, much to their dismay. They told him to always stay at least 10 feet away and never run out of their sight. Most of the time, his dads don't even allow him to leave their small sub-community nestled far back behind the endless orchards of fruit trees, secluded miles and miles away from the main town. They say it's dangerous—pick-pocketers run rampant in the streets, murderers sneak in through people's windows and murder children in the dead of the night, and peacekeepers whip you for even stepping out of line. Yet, from what he can see, none of that is true.

He thinks his dads might be sheltering him from something else—but from what, he can only guess.

"Hey Tachell, isn't it weird how people of opposite sexes are standing so close to one another?" Takei asks again, his eyes resting on a young girl resting her head on a boy's shoulder.

"What is it with all these questions today?" Tachell fires back, narrowing his eyes at his younger brother.

He leans forward, placing his lips right next to his brother's ear so his dads don't hear him. "What if things are different here?"

The older boy shoves his face away. "You sound like a crazy man. What do you even mean?"

"What if Pop and Dad keep us so sheltered for a reason?"

"They do it to keep us safe," his brother replies very matter-of-factly. "Do you want to get murdered in the middle of the night by some strange man? I certainly don't. You're always so curious about the world but you shouldn't be. It's a scary place, and I for one am glad our parents are sheltering us."

"But what if they're lying?" Takei whispers softly.

Tachell snorts. "Why would they lie to us?"

One of his dads, Pop, turns around. "Are you boys alright?"

They both nod their heads rapidly. "Yep, just fine!" They exclaim in unison, flashing Pop a pair of giant smiles.

"Okay..." Pop mutters, his tone suggesting he's a bit wary. However, he smiles and turns back around, continuing his conversation with their other dad.

"You should have been quieter!" Takei hisses at Tachell. "Now they're onto us!"

"Onto what? Onto nothing? You're jumping to conclusions, Takei! They aren't lying to us, and they don't let us leave because they don't want us getting hurt in the outside world. People here are just like us—they live in same-sex homes where men marry men and women marry women. Why can't you just accept that and move on?"

Takei knew why he couldn't accept it, but he didn't dare say anything. His brothers and friends might all be content with their way of life, but he certainly wasn't. They all fit in, but ever since he could remember, he's always had this sinking feeling that he's out of place, like a fish out of water. While everyone else seems to like the idea of marrying men, he can't see himself doing it. When he envisions his future, he sees himself marrying a woman—particularly Lily. He feels himself blushing just thinking about her—her smooth black skin, wide brown eyes, and heart-shaped lips. She's so beautiful, yet, no one understands that. At least no men did in his community.

No one anywhere does. If the whole world is just like his fathers say it is, then there is no hope for him. He'll never fit in.

"Yeah, maybe you're right," Takei replies, turning back to his brother. "I'm probably just looking for things that aren't there. Why would Pop and Dad lie to us?"

"Exactly," Tachell replies, giving his brother a reassuring smile. "They're just trying to keep us safe."

They walk the rest of the trip in silence, Takei taking in all the scenery he can before they return to their secluded community. The next time his parents will let him leave is probably going to be reaping day—but that day was far too nerve-racking to stop and look around for even a second. Despite Eleven being one of the largest districts and him not taking any tesserae, there was still a small chance he could get reaped, which scared the hell out of him. Despite never going to school—his parents claimed school was "dangerous and a place where Takei could get bullied and made fun of"—Takei was a pretty logical person and knew what would happen if he got reaped. With 1-in-24 odds, he probably wouldn't make it out alive.

Yet, if he got chosen maybe it would be for a reason—maybe fate wanted to show him there was a world out there where he could belong.

Or not, because his fathers wouldn't be lying to him. Right? Right. They wouldn't lie. They're just trying to keep him safe. Right? Right.

Right.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Sorry about the two-week gap, but I'm back! It's been a busy two weeks, I was getting home at 8 almost every night and had various tests and essays to do after being out all day, and unlike some of you all, my school doesn't end until literally almost JULY. Ugh. On top of all that, I basically had the plague all week last week and got about 2 hours of sleep each night so you know, didn't exactly feel like writing. I'm still sick but feeling a little bit better, and I have a bit of time before work so I thought I'd get this out._

 _Some of the content in this chapter made me feel a bit weird to write, but like I've said before, I want a challenge. And these two characters were definitely a challenge, but I hope I wrote them well and their submitters liked my portrayal of them. How did you all like them? They are both extremely layered, so there is so much more to reveal from both them._

 _One more intro, then we're onto the reaping recaps, which was honestly one of my favorite chapters to write last time! YAY! I feel like I'm running a marathon with these intros honestly, but the next pair is real fun so expect them out this time next week unless I suddenly get the plague again and physically can't write. And I think I might do the pregames a little differently this time, but I'm still deciding. Would you guys like longer POVs but less of them, or shorter and more of them? Tell me in the reviews! Thanks!_

 _happy to be back,_

 _paper :)_


	14. District Twelve: Lowest of the Low

_District Twelve Introductions: Lowest of the Low_

* * *

 _North Brier, 14._

 _District Twelve Female._

* * *

She came out of the womb fighting.

In District Twelve, where the birth rates only hover around a meager fifty percent, all babies have to fight to merely stay alive for even a second. The only doctors here are natural healers—if you're even lucky enough to find one. Most babies are born on rotting wooden tables and ragged carpets of their mother's homes, far away from the glistening white hospitals of the Capitol and Upper Districts. North was born on the concrete floor of a dark and dingy alley. Here, the world is cruel and unforgiving—it doesn't care if you're innocent; innocent doesn't matter in the revenge-seeking eyes of the Capitol. Twelve is a place where innocents die. Babies and kids alike. Only the fighters survive.

And North Brier is most certainly a fighter.

Her mother died when she was seven, overdosed on morphine bought illegally from the money she obtained from her "job". Despite her young age and impressionable mind, North's mother didn't even keep it a secret from her; the woman sold herself for money, and that was that. North didn't think twice about it; she was too young to think it bad anyway. To her, her mother returning back to their home, or rather, an ally they filled with newspaper beds, at odd hours and horribly drunk wasn't strange. It was normal. It just was.

After her mother died, she didn't have anyone. She was just seven years old and utterly alone, just her against a world that had already robbed her of the one thing in life she had been able to call hers: her mother. Yet, despite the odds being against her, she fought and made a life for herself. She stole to survive, found other kids like her, formed a group, kept herself protected, and for a fleeting moment—she actually thought the world would let her have something good. Together, their small and strangely formed family, yet a family nonetheless, would laugh. Real, genuine laughs. The type that makes you smile uncontrollably and is so contagious it spreads like wildfire.

But even the world wouldn't let her have that. No, North Brier couldn't have anything. Not even one thing to call her own. A few months later, four out of six of her group mates were rounded up and brought to the community home, a place she decided was worse than the streets. It was only her and Eben left – Eben and her. Them against the world, but what was new? It had always been that way.

"Eben, I'm going out," she declares, standing at the entrance of the same ally her and her mother used to live in years before. It's changed now – it's dirtier then she remembers, more barren, more lifeless. Yet Eben says her personality alone lights it up: when she smiles, he claims, everything else fades away. All the dirt, all the grime. It's just gone.

"Where?" he asks inquisitively, his bright eyes flashing with worry.

She lets her mouth hang open for a minute before responding. Then, she grins slightly. "You know where," she replies, sheepishly averting her eyes from his concerned gaze.

"No, not today," Eben mutters. "You don't have to today."

"Why not?"

"I stole enough for us both today—I don't want you to get hurt like last time," he responds.

"I won't. I have the knife you gave me, remember?"

She reaches into her pocket, pulling out an old rusted knife Eben bought her at the Hub a few months ago after she'd come home one morning with bruises all over her body. It was expensive—they didn't eat for a few days after, but Eben claimed knowing she was safe was worth every penny he'd paid and every minute he'd thought about the sweet taste of bread on his tongue. Knowing she'd at least be safe if anything ever took a turn for the worse gave him a peace of mind that was worth a thousand knives.

"Still, I worry that the men will hurt you."

"They won't," North assures, giving him the wild, large signature North Brier grin that he's come to know so well. She smiles so often because she believes that in a place so dismal as this, something needs to counteract all the bad happening around them. "And since when did you decide you were my protector, shorty? I can protect myself well enough, thank-you-very-much."

Eben stands up, revealing how short he really is. Despite being three years older than her, the boy has yet to hit his growth spurt, and North wonders if he ever will. Right now, he stands at a tall 5'1", two inches shorter than she is. His limbs are stout and his bones poke out from his ash-tainted skin. On the other hand, North has a little bit of a darker complexion: her skin is a warm coffee shade, yet it's still covered in flecks of black ash that many other seam dwellers often wear like clothes. She's malnourished too—her collarbone is her most defining feature, jutting out from her chest.

"I know you can," he replies, wrapping his arm around her. She tries to pull away, but that only makes him hold her tighter. "But I just want to be _extra_ sure."

North rolls her eyes, giving him a playful punch in the ribs and yanking herself away. "You can never be extra sure with me. Speaking of being unpredictable, want to do something I just thought of before I go to work?"

"Why not?"

North laughs. "Okay, we're going to go watch the sunset."

Eben narrowed his eyes, smirking slightly. "Don't like, lovers do that?"

"Yeah, but we're lovers of life, right?"

"Right," he replied assuredly, grabbing his bag and leading the way. "But don't think I'm going to let you pick the spot."

"No way!" North exclaimed, rushing after him. "My idea, my spot!"

Eben keeps walking to some unknown destination, ignoring her constant yelps that the idea belongs to her and that she already has a perfect spot in mind. Even tugging fiercely on his arm to try to get him to go her way doesn't work: he's stubborn as a bull. But she is too, which was why she doesn't stop, continuing to tug at his limbs until they arrive at the edge of town. Ahead lays the thick forest that surrounded the entire district, and the fence that kept them inside hidden somewhere in the green underbrush and trees.

North stops tugging. Her eyes narrow into a confused expression.

"Here?" she gawks, barely able to see the setting sun behind the trees.

He points to a distant point beyond the fence. "No, you idiot. There."

"But isn't that like, against the rules?"

Eben gives her a sideways glance. "Since when do you care about the rules?"

"True, true," she replies with a wide grin, hopping forward and ducking into the underbrush. "Rules are for suckers."

"Hey!" the older boy calls after her. "You don't even know where you're going!"

"That's the point! Like I just said, rules are for suckers!"

He follows her through the bushes until they come upon a chain-linked fence about twice her height. She scans it with her eyes, trying to find the best way through it.

"You know if you just followed my lead for once in your life we—"

"Shut up," North commands, then leaps onto the fence and begins to scurry up it. She's always been an agile little girl—she most certainly isn't strong, but her thin frame allowed her to be lithe and stealthy—she is built like a thief but can't steal for the life of her. She's far too clumsy; her mind is too slow and her footsteps too loud. But she can climb. As a young child, she'd climb anything she saw—boxes, trees, trash heaps and roofs are among the various things she's conquered. For her, a rotting fence is no challenge. She easily scales it and leaps to the other side, smiling at Eben through the links of the fence.

"Show off," he mutters, then does the same, slowly climbing up the fence. The way he does it is much less elegant, yet, it still gets the job done. She smiles at him when he stumbles to the ground, barely landing on his own two feet.

"I do it better," she taunts.

"You wish," he retorts back, rolling his eyes. Yet, secretly, she knows that he knows that she did it better. He'll just never admit that to her: not in a million years, not ever.

They walk through the open forest, breathing in the cool dusk air. After a few minutes of walking through no-man's land North finally picks a tree. It's sturdy and tall, with branches that can support their weight. This time she lets Eben lead the way.

Then she goes, flying up the tree like a monkey. Swinging her legs around the branch, North takes a seat beside Eben and rests her head on his shoulder.

They say nothing, but really, nothing needs to be said. They've known their place in the world for long enough to know that the beauty of the sunset is the best it's ever going to get—they don't need to spoil it by talking. They're never going to see the beautiful and fabled lights of the Capitol unless they're being sent to their sure death; they're never going to see a sparkling diamond or a real gold coin like the kids in the more privileged districts. They just take it all in in silence, and North smiles, knowing that despite everything else the world took away from her, the sunset would always be there.

* * *

 _Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Male._

* * *

By the time he comes home, it's eleven-fifty-seven, almost three hours past curfew. He squeaks the door open ever so slowly so his dad doesn't hear him, but when he flicks on the flashlight the shadowy figure of his dad is already sitting with his arms crossed on the couch, a scowl plastered on his face.

"Hello Mortimer," his dad greets in a passive-aggressive tone of voice.

The short boy swears under his breath. He's naïve to think his dad wouldn't be waiting there, especially since he's _three whole hours late_. It's stupid to be out even a few minutes past curfew, especially with the peacekeepers still on edge with the rebel plot that had been found out just a few short months ago right here in District Twelve. Just last week two teens had been found making out around midnight in the woods. They were both given the generous punishment of 10 lashes. You have to be either really idiotic or really desperate to take the risk of being out past dark. He's both.

"Hi Dad," he replies bashfully, giving him a guilty smile.

"Do you know what time it is?" His father questions, narrowing his eyes at Mortimer.

"Uh, no?" He lies, trying to play dumb. "Well—yeah, sort of. I just kind of lost track of time, you know?"

"Three hours of time?" The older man asks, narrowing his eyes in disbelief.

"You know how I am," he fibs, "always forgetful. I was just at Patch's house playing a board game he found in the dumpster when I realized it was already eleven! You know Patch, right? The skinny kid with the blonde hair that works with me at the Hub?"

Another lie. He isn't forgetful, and he certainly wasn't playing games at his friend Patch's house. First of all, he doesn't even like games. Secondly, he doesn't have any friends. Patch is just some kid he made up so he can say he's with his friend Patch whenever he's late. So far, it's worked really well—and his father probably thinks they're best friends because Mortimer is late _a lot. Like—almost every day._ But it's not for the reasons his father probably thinks.

His father sighs, letting his shoulders droop down in disappointment. "Alright," he mutters. "You just scare me sometimes. Running off, doing this, doing that. I don't want you to end up like well—well—you know who. You're not lying to me, right? You're not sneaking off to be part of some rebel plot?"

Mortimer snorts. "No, of course not Dad. Do you have any trust in me at all?"

"Nope," his father responds blatantly, making Mortimer's shoulders slump a little. The serious expression on his father's face tells him he's not kidding. Mortimer has always known he's his dad's least favorite; in his father's eyes, his sister has always been the golden child—she's the prodigy, the one who will bring them out of poverty and maybe get them to the good side of town. _But really, is there a good side of town in Twelve?_

On the other hand, Mortimer has always been the trouble child; he's the one who is dumb and dropped out of school because he couldn't focus for long enough; he's the one who can't hold a pickaxe because his arms are too skinny; he's the one who gets himself into trouble every other day; he's the one who will never be good enough—not for his father, not for himself, and not even for District Twelve, the lowest of the low. He lies and lies and can't stop himself even when he wants to tell the truth. He distrusts people so much he can't even form a basic friendship with anyone. But his sister is good; his sister isn't like him; she's the one who actually has a future and should be the one to get out of here.

That's why he's working illegal jobs after curfew and lying to his dad about it. He needs to buy her the books she needs to learn: books that his poor miner father doesn't have the money for. That way, she can get out of here—if she learns how to build and create stuff, she can help them all. However, if his father ever found out he was putting himself it risks for that—something unnecessary and dangerous—he'd never hear the end of it. He's already lost his wife; he doesn't need to lose his son too.

"Just don't do it again," his father tells him, then lurches himself off the dirt-stained couch and disappears into the darkness. Mortimer watches as he goes, then once he hears the door to his father's room click shut, he rushes down the hallway into the closet that they converted into his sister's room a few weeks after she was born.

"Morty!" His nine-year-old sister squeaks as he slowly pries open the door to her room. Despite it being almost pitch black she knows it's him: he's the only one who comes home this late after all.

"Miss me?" He asks.

"Maybe a little," she giggles. "Spinny?"

"What else am I here for?" He jokes. She then leaps out of her bed and flings her arms around his neck, a rare smile creeping onto Mortimer's face. He steps out of the room and twirls her around in circles in the hallway outside, her small body swirling around in the air like a carnival ride. She erupts with laughter—her giggles like bubbles of joy. It's infectious and soon he's laughing too.

"Go to bed!" Their father's grumpy voice echoes from the room next door. Mortimer stops laughing, then places Ren down on the ground, flicking his flashlight on.

"Want to see what I got you today?"

She nods her head quickly, her crooked teeth flashing in the bright glare streaming from the flashlight. Reaching into his knapsack, he pulls out an old and tattered book he found after sifting through various piles of things at the Hub. He can't read, but his woman at the Hub told him it was a book about rockets—things that shoot up into the sky. _They're like airplanes,_ she told him, _but only faster and cooler. Perfect for the curious-minded._ He instantly thought of his sister and knew he had to buy it.

"What is a rocket?" His sister asks after reading the faded words on the front cover.

"That's for you to find out," he replies with a wide grin. "But once you do, tell me all about it. I want to hear everything. Maybe then I can be as smart as you someday."

He reads the title over again, then gives him mammoth hug. "Thanks, Morty."

"Anything for my Ren," Mortimer coos, then jostles the hair on top her head around with his hand. She giggles again, and he hands her the flashlight. "Just don't tell Dad, okay? I told him I was at a friend's house—if he found out I was working extra late to buy you this book he'll get mad, and we don't want that."

"Alright, no mad Dad," Ren responds with a grin. "Did you like my rhyme?"

He shrugs. "I mean, it was okay. Next time, I'll think of a better rhyme."

"Hey!" His sister exclaims, playfully punching him lightly in the shoulder. "It was better than whatever that was all together."

He smiles, lifting her up and putting her back on her bed. "Okay, time for bedtime," he murmurs. "I'll see you tomorrow night after work again, okay?"

"That wasn't a rhyme!" Ren protests, but he's already closing the door, waving goodbye to her. "You can't leave until you make another rhyme! It's the rule!"

"Just go to sleep, alright? We'll play the rhyme game tomorrow night."

She frowns and nods her head solemnly. "Okay, Morty. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He blows her a kiss, then closes the door. After he heads back down the hallway into the living room and plops himself down on the couch, exhausted. However, in six hours he's going to have to wake up and do it all again. Yet, he'll do it. He'll do it for his sister. He's going to make her life better, even if it kills him in the process. After all, they're family. They're all each other has.

* * *

 **A/N** : A day early but I'm busy all today tomorrow and won't have time to update, but who ever complains when things are early, right?

And with that, we're officially done with the reapings! Who is pumped? I certainly am! Next up is the reaping recaps, where we'll finally see who volunteered and who didn't, and how everyone reacted to getting reaped! Then we're in the pregames! I already have some great things planned people, and it's only going to get better from here. So stick around folks, the drama is beginning to unfold. (And yes, this story will have lots of drama, I am a bit of a drama queen myself after all!)

Tell me your top five favorite tributes in the reviews, I'm curious to see who the audience reacted well toward! Plus, what do you think of North and Mortimer? I defiently have some big things planned for them, so stay tunned :)

Also, next chapter may come a little later, chapters will now be closer to 5k-7k words as opposed to 2k-3k so they'll take me probably twice as long. I'll just update whenever I finish them now, so expect some inconsistancy. It was good while it lasted though.

Feeling quite relieved to be done with my SECOND group of reapings,

still kind of in shock,

paper :)


	15. Reaping Recap: The Chosen

_Reaping Recaps: The Chosen_

* * *

 _Sicarius Valens, Head Gamemaker._

He has the Capitol build him a chair of gold embedded with tiny glittering gems, the inside lined with red velvet. It's in the shape of the throne the old medieval kings used to sit on when they presided over their royal court, large and towering, the boldest and brightest thing in the room. He has the designers place it on a small platform a few feet high so he can really feel above his fellow gamemakers. He's not a fool; he knows appearance is power. He has a naturally short stature and only stands at about 5 feet and 5 inches. That's shorter than a good portion of the men and even some of the women in the room. So by making the chair—or rather, throne—higher, it makes him seem taller; it makes him seem more powerful. The art of control is all in the deceit, and that's what he does best.

Now, as his worker bees buzz beneath him working diligently to make sure all the reapings run smoothly and without error, he sits up in his gilded throne like an ancient king. Under his watchful eye, nothing will go wrong. Everything has already been carefully calculated; he's chosen how many peacekeepers will be present in each district for the ceremony, and this year, for the first time ever, they've made blood tests mandatory so that they know exactly who each tribute is. Their past, their family, little details no one would know from looking at them with the naked eye—blood tells Sicarius all he needs to know. With him in command, they'll be no funny business. In some extreme cases, he's even already predetermined which tributes are going to get reaped.

No one is exempt from the games; no one is safe from the wrath of the Capitol. The rich, the poor, the good, the bad, the black, the white, the smart, the dumb, the hardworking, the lazy—everyone will be reaped. And he'll make sure only the worthiest survives—if that's what they'll even do at all.

Because once he's done with them, he doubts any of them will ever be the same again.

* * *

 _Zeva Okoye, 21._

 _District One Mentor, Victor of the 8th Hunger Games._

Even she, District One's first career victor, couldn't have imagined it would get as crazy as this.

Last year there was a physical fight to get to the stage. This year, she knows it's going to be even crazier.

Even from her seat on the stage, Zeva can feel the energy radiating off of the crowd. They're buzzing with excitement; two-thousand-three-hundred and twenty-five anxious faces wait restlessly to see who their two champions are going to be; twice as many eyes watch as the pink haired escort reaches her long fingernails into the bowl and retrieves a name. However, she knows as well as anyone this name means virtually nothing; a second after the name is announced someone will come running to the stage, most likely some beautiful blonde princess with stunning blue eyes that could make any boy she looks at drop dead with awe.

That's how most of the population of One looks. Well, except her with her chocolate brown skin and raven black hair, but she's an exception. There are no other victors like her. She's the only one who isn't white.

"Mimosa Bloom!" The escort announces, her pearly white teeth flashing in the bright midday sun.

Before the reaped girl could even move, a voice shouts loudly: "I volunteer!"

There is a rustling in the 16-year-old section. Zeva raises her eyebrow, a bit surprised that someone so young volunteered. Careers the past few years have all been eighteen with a few exceptions—the longer they wait, the more training they get in and the deadlier they become. _Why wasn't this girl waiting until she was eighteen?_ Zeva wishes she knew.

She's even more surprised when she sees that the girl isn't white either. She's short with chestnut hair and caramel skin, sticking out like a sore thumb compared to all the blonde girls with snow-white complexions. She weaves her way through the crowd slowly, waving at the camera with a giant grin as she walks.

 _Well, that's something she has in common with the other District One girls,_ Zeva thinks. _She certainly appears to be vain, or at least attention-seeking._ And she thought for a moment this girl would be different. Apparently, she thought too quickly.

Next, the escort moves over to the males' bowl, where he reaches in and pulls out a slip from the very top. "Fabian Sinclair!"

Again, the volunteer doesn't even give the boy a chance to show his face before he yells: "I volunteer as tribute!" into the air as loud as he can.

From the 18-year-old section, a tall and muscular boy with blue eyes and light brown swept hair steps forward. Despite not liking men that way, Zeva can still tell he's handsome, and she snorts as she imagines all the teenage girls in the Capitol probably swooning over him and claiming dibs on him at this very moment.

"What's your name, brave volunteer?" The escort asks, blinking her long eyelashes flirtatiously at him.

He grins, taking the microphone from the escorts hand. "I'm Clay Wolfe, and I'll be seeing you all in a few weeks for my victor's ceremony!"

The crowd goes wild, and Zeva rolls her eyes. The cocky boys were always the ones who died the quickest, most of their time, their skills didn't mirror their words. However, for this boy's sake, she hoped he would prove her wrong.

* * *

 _Henna Wentworth, 23._

 _District Two Mentor, Victor of the 7th Hunger Games._

The air high in the mountains of Two is cold and thin. It's unwelcoming to strangers, and the escort shivers onstage as he stands in his thick and puffy coat, trying to smile wide for the cameras despite the constant chattering of his teeth. The climate of Two isn't for the weak like him, who know no life other than comfort and luxury—a life of plush beds and fattening meals, a life of bubbly Champaign and glowing televisions the size of walls. Here, only the strong survive. Two is where champions are born, hardened by the frigid northern wind and the backbreaking yet rewarding work in the stone cutteries.

She has no doubt District Two will present another worthy pair this year, both equally fit to wear the golden crown at the end of the contest. She trained them after all, opened the academy herself five short years ago and made it into what it is today: a warrior factory. Hana and Pilate are two of the strongest and most resilient fighters she's ever cultivated, and today, they will begin their test to see if they have what it takes to win. She has no doubt one of them will.

Taking off his woolen mittens, the escort picks the first name his finger touches in the females' bowl. "Glacier McNamara!"

A tall girl emerges from the seventeen-year-old's section, but her place is quickly taken by Hana, who has cleaned up well for her first big moment in the spotlight. Henna knows she chose her bright red dress for the color of it alone—it resembles freshly drawn blood—bright, vibrant, brilliant. The pretty girl smiles confidently as she makes her way up to the stage, no doubt reveling in the moment Henna knows she's been looking forward to almost her entire life.

"For Alfie," she declares into the microphone, her bright eyes staring right into the camera. "And I'm no martyr, I have people to live for back home. I will be returning, and it will not be in a coffin."

The crowd erupts with cheers, then after a while quiets down in anxious anticipation of the next volunteer.

As expected, it's Pilate who volunteers, shouting his name into the air almost the moment after the slip is read. However, something else unexpected happens. Another shout rings through her ears: someone else yells that they volunteer.

Then, within seconds, the boys are racing to the stage, pushing people over in the crowd as they try in vain to reach those stone steps first. People scream as they are flung to the side and Henna strains her eyes to see who the challenger is. When she sees the dark hair and determined green eyes she instantly knows who it is: Draco, the second place—formerly first place—recruit at the academy and the expected volunteer until about a month ago, when Pilate showed up to play. Driven by some mysterious motivation unbeknownst to her, the latter boy won by a landslide in the final battle; yet, it seems that Draco doesn't want to quit without giving it his all. She feels a small smile come to her lips: this is the type of competition she only dreams of happening.

Pilate emerges from the maze of people first, but Draco isn't far behind. The two boys race to the stage, and when she thinks that Pilate finally has a sizable lead, something else completely unexpected happens. Jutting his hand outward in a desperate last stand to win, Draco grabs the taller boy's arm and yanks him backward. Pilate lets out a shrill cry, then turns around and punches his challenger square in the nose. Draco is then shoved to the ground, his nose crooked and beginning to bleed. The red blood, the color of Hana's dress shimmers in the bright yet cold sunlight for all of Panem to see.

Making his way up to the stage—uncontested now—Pilate smiles wide for the cameras. The escort is in shock, trying to keep his cool as but still shaking like a madman, partially from the cold and partially from the crazy scene that just went on in front of him.

"He's our winner," Henna whispers to her fellow victor Elibus, barely able to control the massive grin spreading across her face. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

 _Alessio McNamara, 24._

 _District Three Mentor, Victor of the 3rd Hunger Games._

Three is the first of the districts people skip over when they are making their predictions for victor. _The people here are small and underfed, all brains and no brawn,_ the Capitol experts say. _Three is boring, a break from the god-like tributes of Two and the beautiful sun-kissed skinned citizens of Four. The only reason people watch their tributes get reaped is that they don't want to miss anything from the Districts that precede and follow it. Nothing good comes out of District Three but video games and cool technology._

However, Alessio thinks being underestimated is a good thing. It's how he won, and it's how he's going to make his trainees win too.

The sky on the day of the reaping is dull and grey: the color of sadness, of melancholy, of sorrow. A light drizzle falls from the heavens and mists the earth with a thin coating of silvery dew. The smog that rises from Three's main city is even greyer, almost black in color. It's a bad omen; it tells its citizens that there is nothing to hope for but mercy from the Capitol and that two of their own are going to be snatched from them and marched to their deaths today. They can only sit and watch helplessly as they are carried away. Alessio often feels helpless too; he tries his best to change that fact but every year his kids die all the same. No one has come home, not since him at least. He wonders if anyone else ever will.

The escort, with her curly purple locks and ridiculous orange polka dress, smiles sweetly at the people. No one smiles back.

"Shall we begin?"

There is a sad mumble that ripples through the crowd.

"I'll take that as a yes! Ladies' first, as always!" She pipes cheerfully, her attitude such a stark contrast to everyone else around her.

Taking a slip out of the bowl, she energetically reads off of it. "The lovely Freyja Abbott!"

The mayor, who is seated to his left, gasps and lets out a faint whimper. Alessio is equally as shocked: this year, the tribute isn't some normal, run-of-the-mill middle-class factory worker like it normally is. It's instead Freyja Abbott, the daughter of Ralph Abbott, who is _the mayor. The mayor._

The crowd parts way for Freyja, who is equally as in shock. After a minute she holds her head high and smiles faintly, walking up to the stage in a cool and collected manner. Alessio admires her for doing so, he knows she's probably dying inside. He cried the day his name was pulled. _But who wouldn't?_ You're being sent to the death, you have the right to cry. He admires Freyja for not breaking down. Maybe for the first time in years, they actually have a tribute who is strong and might stand a chance. But he shouldn't get too ahead of himself.

Moving over to the males' bowl, the peachy faced escort draws another name from the round bowl. "And now for our male tribute, the brave Skylar Baxter!"

There is another ripple of chatter in the crowd, and Alessio is surprised to recognize the name again. Skylar Baxter is the son of one of head peacekeeper in town, Sheldon Baxter. Something tells him it's not a coincidence the children of the two most powerful officials in the district were reaped. As a victor, he knows the Capitol punishes those who have too much power. It's happened to him, and it looks like it just happened to both Sheldon and Ralph. They must have flown too close to the sun, and now, they're falling.

The boy still hasn't moved, despite the fact that the other kids in the 17-year old's section have cleared a path for him to the stage.

"Skylar Baxter?" The escort echoes again.

Still no movement. A minute passes, and the boy's face only turns whiter.

"Skylar Baxter, are you out there?"

As if a switch was just turned on inside his head, the boy springs to life. He lowers his head and ambles toward the stage, and Alessio can see the gears of his mind turning around and around in his head. His lips are curved into a slight frown, and he looks almost annoyed as if he were mad that the games had interrupted his probably cozy and comfortable lifestyle he has the head peacekeeper's son. Alessio is surprised he's just simply annoyed. If he was a son of the peacekeeper and got reaped, he'd be absolutely furious.

"Alright, let's give it up for your wondrous tributes District Three, the darling Freyja Abbott and Skylar Baxter!"

The people only clap because they're relieved it's not them this year.

* * *

 _Mags Flannagan, 17._

 _District Four Mentor, Victor of the 11th Hunger Games._

District Four is the big question on everyone's mind this year, the one variable of the games that is keeping everyone guessing. _Are there going to be careers this year hailing from the seaside district?_

As the first true career from the fishing District, Mags trained in the makeshift academy for a year before volunteering. She did it for her mother: her sick, frail, dying mother whose last wish was that Mags make a life for herself bigger than just being a poor fisherman's daughter. And Mags did. She trained harder than anyone else and came out on top. She now the pride of District Four, the poster child of the Games—the fiery red-haired girl everyone in the District's has come to know and love over the past year. She's all smiles and giggles for the cameras: President Heron told her to smile or her father dies, so what is she to do? Her deceased mother thought winning the games would free her, but in reality, it just put even heavier chains on her legs.

She wishes the volunteers—she knows there will be one, at least—know that. She wishes they know what they're getting themselves into because she certainly didn't. Diving headfirst into the ocean without even thinking never gets one somewhere good. The kids who volunteer will think they know it all, but they don't. They're all just naïve little kids, even if they think they're born to be killers.

In the distance, the ocean waves crash monotonously against the rocky shoreline. They can be heard as the escort reads the females' name off of the slip.

"Coraline Seaton!"

To her surprise, no one volunteers. She's thankful that no one made the same mistake as her, yet, her heart still aches for the girl. The reaped tribute makes her way out of the seventeen-year old's section, her eyes wide in terror. That's the first thing Mags notices about the girl: her eyes. They're the color of the ocean, a deep blue. They shimmer with worry, with shock, with fear. Yet, the rest of the short girl's body conveys other emotions, she holds her head high, keeps her shoulders square, and puffs out her broad chest confidently. Mags knows it's an act though—the eyes tell all. She's scared but is trying desperately to hide it from the cameras. Just like Mags did every day for the past year of her life as a victor.

After the girl makes her way to the stage, the escort moves over to the boys' reaping bowl.

"And the male tribute for this year's Hunger Games is. . ."

She pauses in an attempt to try to dramatize it. "Kunai Weston!"

A small boy squeals in the twelve-year-old's section and begins to cry. However, he is saved by the cry of another.

"I volunteer as tribute!" A red-headed boy yells into the crowd, silencing the younger boy's wails. A path clears for him and he strides toward the stage, his brilliant red-hair gleaming in the midday sun. It looks like it's on fire, the gel in it only making his locks shine brighter.

It's not just the vibrant hair that reminds Mags of herself. Mags sees herself a year ago today, walking through the crowd, her cheeks flushed hot as the cameras pin in on her. Just like the boy is.

"What's your name, young man?" The escort asks as he steps onto the stage.

"Archer Caspian," he replies, his voice waiving slightly. He smiles at the crowd, trying to make up for that slight moment of hesitation and weakness.

"Great! Now shake hands."

Both tributes smile confidently at each other, trying to act like they know what they're doing. Yet, she knows they don't. She had a whole year of training and she still had no idea what the hell she was doing when she stepped up onto that stage for the first time.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!" The escort exclaims, and Mags feels her face go pale.

 _How in the world is she going to save these kids when she's still just a kid herself?_

* * *

 _Stark Regis, 49._

 _Capitol-Chosen District Five Mentor._

He wishes District Five would hurry up and get itself a victor.

It's not that they're poor or underfed, no, the people here are just fine. Well, by Capitol standards they're practically savages, but compared to the other more impoverished districts like Nine and Twelve, they're well off. According to the Capitol Bureau of Tesserae Statistics, District Five is actually the third-richest district, behind only District One and Two, both of which in his mind were tolerable Districts as far as the citizens went. Why couldn't they just build themselves an academy to get themselves some victors? He's tired of mentoring and hates the smell of the dirty town-square he has to sit in once a year of the reapings. All his friends got themselves Victors already, so why couldn't he?

He zones out during the boring video where President Heron drones on and on about the rebellion. _Boring!_ He lived through it, they lived through it, so why couldn't they just remember the rebellion by themselves in their own time? Playing the stupid video year after year just took up more of his precious time that could be spent at luxurious parties and eating exotic foods.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the video ceases and the mayor gets up to speak. Ugh! It's the same boring speech every year, tributes and serving the Capitol, payment for the rebellion and being glad that the President has shown them mercy. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah! Can't he mix it up from time to time? He gets the gist, the Districts are forever in debt to the Capitol, yadadahaha. _Just pick the tributes already so he can leave this smelly town!_

The mayor seems to have had the same thought, for this year, Stark notices that his speech is actually a little bit shorter than usual. Then, the escort makes her big and extravagant entrance.

"Hello District Five!" She squeals, waving happily to the crowd. No one waves back, per usual. Her smile fades slightly and she makes her way over to the males' bowl.

"I was thinking of switching it up this year!" She exclaims, batting her giant eyelashes. "We haven't had a victor yet, so I think it's time to mix it up and get this bad mojo out of here! We're going to be choosing from the males' bowl first this year. Just a little experiment to see if we can get some good luck around here!"

She dives her hand down into the bowl, yanking out a piece from the very bottom of the pile. "Henry Circuita!"

A fifteen-year-old boy faints in the crowd. A few people squeak around him, leaping out of the way as he falls to the hard concrete. In the distance, a woman screams, then tries to run forward to meet the boy. However, a pair of peacekeepers detains her, dragging her back to her place.

Then, out of nowhere, a hand shoots up in the seventeen-year-old's section. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

"Sol! Sol no!" A girl screams beside him, grabbing his arm to try to hold him back. "What are you doing? Please, no!"

A pair of peacekeepers pry her off him and hold her in place. She continues to scream for the boy, who Stark soon realizes is her brother.

A skinny boy of Asian descent makes his way toward the stage, his eyes locked on the reaping bowls. He doesn't dare look back at his sister, who has now stopped screaming. Stark finds himself rolling his eyes at the whole dramatic scene. _He volunteered, get over it,_ he thinks to himself in his head. _It was his choice, you should have stopped him before he told the entire country he volunteered._

"What's your name?" The escort asks, jutting the microphone right in front of his face.

"Solomon. Solomon Nguyen," he mutters, his eyes staring down at the floor as if he were slightly ashamed or embarrassed. Stark just guesses he probably doesn't want to look his terrified sister in the eyes or he'll feel guilty for volunteering for a death sentence.

"Alright Solomon, may the odds be ever in your favor! And now, for our female tribute. . . Luna Nguyen!"

The volunteer's face goes absolutely white, and in the crowd, his sister goes silent. In the pale light, Stark can see little silver tears streaming down her face. She closes her eyes, then takes a small step forward, trying to put a smile on her face. She can, but barely, her lips quivering as she walks.

"Well folks, there you have it! The first ever sibling pair in the Hunger Games! We have definitely mixed up the mojo here, definitely! Maybe enough to get ourselves our first victor pair! Shake hands, why don't you two?"

The siblings shake hands, both their eyes wide with terror and shock.

 _Sweet,_ he thinks, turning away from the children on the verge of tears. _It's finally time to leave!_

* * *

 _Raleigh Travers, 18._

 _District Six Mentor, Victor of the 10th Hunger Games._

Every time he comes back here it's like he's being reaped all over again. Having been through the Hunger Games in their entirety, the luxurious train ride, the glittering Capitol, the interviews, the bloodbath, the killing—oh, the killing—the finale, the crowning, and lastly the victory tour, it seems that there are so many other more memorable things than the reaping. He expected the reaping to fade into the background, behind the more poignant and bloodstained memories, yet strangely, it's one of the things he remembers the most clearly. Maybe it's because it was the beginning of the end of life as he knew it. But then again, it would make sense to remember the moment you were chosen to die.

Today, two more children are going to be chosen, and he can't do anything about it but sit and watch.

The sky, just like on the day of his reaping, is colorless. The sun is tucked behind thick clouds so only small streams of light flood through. He wonders if it's always that way; the solemn sky is the earth's way of saying it's sorry for taking the lives of 23 innocent. Or maybe it's just pure coincidence, after all, the earth probably doesn't care. It's not a person, and it doesn't have feelings. Still, a small part of him wants to think it does, that maybe there is some other force out there watching over them.

The escort today wears a brilliant red suit with his orange hair, which almost makes Raleigh gag. On a few occasions when he was doing victor interviews in the Capitol they made him wear a similar garment, which he refused until he remembered what the Capitol could do if he said no. So for a few hours, he bit his lip as he watched the stylists dress him up like a clown. Like a fucking clown.

It's not like he has any power anyway. Victors have the appearance of having power, but really, they are slaves to the Capitol, their souls sold the minute they decided to kill to survive. He's learned that the hard way.

"Ladies first!" The escort chimes, snapping him out of his stupor. As the escort reaches his hand into the bowl Raleigh thinks of Tesserae, of her selfless nature and bright red hair that was so dirty when he met her it looked brown. He never really got to know her; he wishes he did.

"And our female tribute this year is Winnifred Ellison!"

Six is big, and Raleigh doesn't see the girl right away. After a few minutes, a small gap has formed around a girl in the sixteen-year-old's section. Squinting his eyes to see, he finally spots a skinny girl with messy hair, her face pale with sheer terror. She bites her lip to hold back tears, then begins to stumble toward the stage, obviously doing her best to try to hold back tears. For someone who was just condemned to die, she's doing pretty well.

"Think she's got a chance?" Raleigh whispers to Buick, his fellow victor and mentoring partner.

Buick shrugs. "I'm bad at predictions."

Raleigh smirks slightly, thinking back to Buick's own prediction of him. First-day death. "Yeah, I know."

Winnifred steps onto the stage and takes her place behind the escort, her expression neutral.

"Now for the boys' bowl! And the lucky tribute is. . ."

"Lucky?" Buick echoes softly, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "I wouldn't call tributes lucky."

"I'm lucky," Raleigh retorts. "Lucky as a four-leaf clover."

"Yeah, you're lucky to be alive after all the stupid shit that you did." His former mentor snaps back, shutting him up.

"Tyrell Taiko!" The escort announces, his smile wide.

It takes a while for Raleigh to find the boy in the crowd. When his eyes finally land on him, he sees that the boy is wearing dark sunglasses. Raleigh wonders if he's crying under them.

"Why is he wearing those?' Raleigh whispers, leaning over to ask Buick.

"Would you shut up? We're on national television for god's sake. Look like they want us to."

They watch as the kid slowly makes his way through the crowd. Another kid walks beside him and moves his hands as he walks. Tyrell moves his hands back.

"I think he's deaf," Buick whispers, his eyes widening with shock.

"Now who is the one talking on national television?" He jeers back.

"No Raleigh, this is serious. I think he's deaf. See what the boy next to him is doing? He's signing to him."

"Wait, what?"

"He's deaf Raleigh, he's deaf."

Raleigh's eyes widened. "Oh. Shit."

"Oh shit is right."

When the kid finally reaches the stage—Raleigh feels weird calling him a kid, after all, he's only three years older than him—he trips on a step and falls onto his face. Raleigh looks away.

"How are we going to mentor a deaf kid?" he asks, his voice shaky. He's confident he can bring home a regular tribute, _but one that's disabled?_ That sounds like an impossible task.

"I don't know," Buick mutters. "I don't know."

* * *

 _Daffodil Green, 29._

 _District Seven Mentor, Victor of the 1st Hunger Games._

What would they think if they knew the Capitol Darling, the first ever victor of the Hunger Games, is secretly planning a rebellion of her own?

The Capitol thinks she loves them; they think she's forever in debt for making her, a poor orphan girl whose parents died in the rebellion, something great. She's a national icon, the face of the games, a model, a spokeswoman—on the outside, she has a perfect life, doesn't she?

But on the inside, she remembers everything. When you kill people, you don't just forget. They stick in your mind forever, their dead bodies are in your dreams at night, and when you wake up in the morning, you hear their screams.

She's mentored more people than any other victor. She knows what it's like to lose, to see people who you spent a week getting to know die before your very eyes and being powerless to do anything about it. She knows the terrors of the Hunger Games better than anyone, which is why she plans to stop them.

The escort looks so artificial she wants to puke just looking at him, with his forest green gelled hair and silver suit. The spray tan job on his skin is so bad he looks like an orange—not to mention his frame is rather plump as well, which only adds to the appearance.

He gaggles like a goose as he talks, running his finger around the outside of the large reaping bowl as he does so. Then he delicately lowers two fingers in, grabbing the slip on the very top with his long and manicured nails.

"Terra MacIntosh!" he announces.

She instantly spots the girl, and she can see her shoulders droop sadly as if she'd just been completely deflated like a balloon. Her skin is dark and her hair is even darker, wavy and black, like feathers of a raven. She walks toward the stage slowly, keeping her head lowered to hide her watery eyes from the intrusive cameras.

The boy who is reaped seconds later has a completely different reaction. He's young—only thirteen—but when his name is called into the almost silent square he doesn't act like a kid would. She's seen kids his age scream and cry, flail their arms and try to run away from their inevitable fate—but not him. No, when Bruno gets reaped he takes a deep breath and walks to the stage, his chest puffed high in the air. He almost looks—well, cocky. Smiling at the cameras once he reaches the stage, he takes his place beside the terrified Terra. Daffodil wonders if it's all an act.

Scanning them with curious green eyes, the twenty-nine-year-old victor tries to gauge how willing they would be to work with her and take part in her crazy plan that could possibly get them all killed. But they've just been signed up to fight in a match to the death, so really, they're going to die anyway. It all depends on what side of the war they're willing to die for.

"Let's give it up for our wonderful tributes from District Seven this year, Terra MacIntosh and Bruno Muller!"

 _Smile and clap, Daf,_ she tells herself. _Just smile and clap._

They've fallen for it a million times, and she hopes they'll fall for it again.

* * *

 _Consus Prince, 37._

 _Capitol-Chosen District Eight Mentor._

He tries, he really does.

Consus wants his tributes to win, unlike some of his other fellow capitol-chosen mentors. He signed up for this job so he could do some good in the world, maybe save a kid or two from death and help them so they aren't so afraid. Yet, every year he fails yet again: his tributes are decapitated or scorched in a fire, killed brutally by careers or pushed off large cliffs. One time one of his tributes made it to the final three only to be impaled by her opponent's arrow only seconds before the games. Why can't he, just for once, actually succeed at something?

"Beckett Lock!" The escort announces, her high-pitched voice echoing through the crowd.

All the eligible girls sigh in relief it's not them this year, yet, the reaped tribute doesn't make herself known. A minute passes, and still, no one steps forward

"Beckett Lock?"

Another minute passes, and the reaped tribute still isn't identified. Then, a group of peacekeepers begins to advance toward the fourteen-year-old section, pushing confused girls out of the way as they close on the mysterious girl.

Finally, the peacekeepers grab a tall and scrawny girl, who screams the moment they lay hands on her. She tries to run but they quickly scoop her up, and this only makes her scream louder. Some boys in the crowd start to scream, running toward her. They're stopped by other peacekeepers.

"Get your hands off my sister!" One of them yelps, trying to push past a muscled man in white. "She can walk herself!"

The girl is bawling now, tears that formed in her eyes now streaming out and onto her face. She kicks and thrashes her arms in an attempt to try to break loose from the peacekeeper's grasp, but her attempts are unsuccessful. _At least she's a fighter,_ Consus thinks to himself. _Maybe she can win._

Then, when the girl is only a few feet from the steps of the stage, a someone screams. "Death to the Capitol! Death to President Heron!"

A shot rings out, and one of the peacekeepers dragging Beckett to the stage falls dead. Blood splatters on the girl's faded pink dress, and she screams so loudly it echoes through his ears for moments after.

Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. The crowd jolts into a frantic frenzy, everyone screaming and trying to run this way and that. The escort ducks behind the podium she was standing near a few moments ago, curling herself up into a tiny ball and shaking like crazy. The reaped tribute tries to run but is snatched up by another peacekeeper only seconds later. Then, about a hundred peacekeepers run into the crowd, and a few more shots ring out. Another boy, the one who yelled death to the Capitol, falls dead in the middle of it all, three bullets lodged in his chest.

 _Why couldn't he have gotten a nice district? One that doesn't shoot people and yell death to the Capitol every other year? One? Two? He'd even take Twelve!_

After a few minutes, the authorities settle everyone down and crowd everyone back into the square again. Beckett is brought up onto the stage, her face as pale as freshly fallen snow, and her eyes wide as a dear in the headlights. Red blood still covers her dress like a spilled drink. The escort, who is still shaking feverishly, gives her a pat on the shoulder.

"Brave girl."

The reaped tribute seems to shift uncomfortably when the escort says that, and Consus isn't sure whether the escort is talking to herself or the tribute.

"Now, shall we get back to it?"

No one in the crowd replies, except for Consus, who shakes his head yes.

"Gareth Emory!" The escort reads, her voice still slightly shaky.

Again, the reaped tribute doesn't make themselves known. However, it takes much less time for the peacekeepers to snatch Gareth up, not even giving the escort another chance to call out his name.

The peacekeepers drag the stunned boy through the now silent crowd, a million eyes falling on him. He's tall and well-fed, unlike many of the other kids, but like the girl, his face is flushed white and his eyes are wide with terror. Yet, he doesn't move or fight the peacekeepers, stunned to stillness.

"Well, a certainly eventful reaping!" The escort announces, putting on a very fake smile. _Eventful was one word for it, yes._ "Shake hands, Gareth and Beckett!"

Neither of them moves to shake each other's hands, standing as still as statues on the stage.

"Nevermind then," the escort says, grinning awkwardly. "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

 _Oh boy,_ Consus thinks, _looking at the two of them. He certainly had a lot of work to do._

* * *

 _Sickle Foster, 26._

 _District Nine Mentor, Victor of the 4th Hunger Games._

He tries to block this part out.

Yet, he's so drunk right now he probably won't remember it anyway.

Kids finding out they're going to die is never fun. When he found out he was chosen for the Hunger Games and practically given a death sentence, he tried to run. However, he got two feet before a peacekeeper snatched him off the ground, crying and screaming and kicking all to no avail. They placed him on the stage while he was screaming and made him shake hands with another girl who was screaming too—the screams—the screams—they're here, they're here!

Then he blinks, and the voices leave his head and he's right back where he started, right on the wooden stage waiting for the names to be read.

"Eliora Abraham!" The escort exclaims, his voice echoing through the silent crowd.

Then he hears them again—the screams. A girl in the crowd screams too, then clutches desperately to another girl's hand who is standing next to her.

Then it's so silent again he can hear her talk. "You can't let me go. Don't let me go Tirzah," Eliora frantically tells the pale-faced girl next to her, her eyes wide with fear. She's crying now, tears streaming down her face.

The girl whispers something back to Eliora, as if she's trying to coax her to go onto the stage on her own term, and not be dragged up by a peacekeeper.

Eilora screams bloody murder again. "No! No! I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving. They can't make me go, they can't!"

As if on cue, a pair of peacekeepers rushes toward her, taser guns ready. Tizrah's eyes widen.

"Please, let go of me! They'll hurt us!" Tizrah shrieks as she watches the peacekeepers advance.

Then, when they try to pry her off the girl, Eliora shrieks and pushes them away. "Don't touch me!" she yells, then makes her way to the stage, stumbling through the crowd in a shocked and terrified state. The peacekeepers follow her at a distance, their taser guns still sparkling blue.

"Alright then!" The escort exclaims happily, as if he'd just picked the name of a winner for a million-dollar lottery instead of an almost sure death sentence. It makes Sickle sick to his stomach just thinking about it, and he knows even the four bottles of beer swirling around in his body can't make him forget that.

On stage, the russet-haired girl shakes like she in the middle of an earthquake. A few feet away, the escort draws another name like nothing's wrong with this scene.

"Lennox Oresni!"

A boy in the fifteen-year-old section stirs. For a second Sickle sees a look of terror on his face, but when he blinks, it's replaced with a smile and bright eyes. Maybe it's the alcohol playing tricks on his mind, or maybe it's real. Lately, he hasn't been able to differentiate between the two.

The boy walks up to the stage like it's every other day of his life; he doesn't look bothered, or phased, or even sad. Sickle doubts that look of contentment is genuine, it's either an act or he's in denial. Probably the latter. The boy continues to tred forward, his warm hazel eyes gleaming in the bright midday sun. Sickle has to look away after a while. Sometimes, it's worse if they're not crying and screaming. It means they'll be in for the shock of their lives later.

He certainly was, but it wasn't when he died. No—it was when he won.

They say the killing is the hardest part of Games, but he really thinks that it's living with what you've done afterward that's the real challenge. He hopes that these kids never have to deal with that.

 _Is it bad that he wants them to die?_ Death is merciful, the Capitol is not.

* * *

 _Rufus Oxford, 30._

 _District Ten Mentor, Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games._

He hates the sun with a burning passion. Yet, in District Ten it's always sunny, even on reaping days, when the mood is as somber and sullen as the constant and steady rain on a dreary morning. He did like the sun at a time—when he was just a child, no older than seven or eight, before the rebellion came and took everything he loved from him. Then the games came and took even more, sending him spiraling further and further into darkness. However, he likes the dark. No one can see the proclaimed "bloodthirsty and unbreakable" victor's tears that way.

That's why he wears sunglasses every reaping day, even when it rains. He can't let anyone else see his weaknesses, or else, they'll exploit them.

He zones out as the annual Dark Days video drones on in the background, waiting in anticipation for the tributes to be reaped. He'll tell everyone he doesn't care about them, that they're just two more kids out of thousands more that mean nothing to him—but that's not the truth. He just keeps himself distance so he doesn't get attached to them only to watch them die brutal deaths. If they do try to come close he just tells them how he won—how he decapitated two tributes with a butcher's knife and licked their blood from his lips after it splattered all over him. That gets them to go away real quick, that's for sure.

So as the escort reads off the female tribute's name, he tries not to pay attention, but does anyway, not able to help himself.

The first tribute who is reaped, Marguerite, is a tiny twelve-year-old girl with the widest eyes he's ever seen. When her name is called she doesn't cry—she doesn't scream—she doesn't even look shocked. She just walks to the stage calmly, and when the escort asks her if she has anything to say, she takes the microphone and says that she doesn't suppose anyone will miss her, and so at least District Ten won't be losing much this year.

 _Well, that's one way of looking at it._

 _She must be an orphan,_ he thinks to himself. _Just like me._

 _Don't get attached. Don't you do it, Rufus._

He blinks, trying to focus his attention away from the strange looking girl and onto the next tribute, whose name had just been called. Braxton, the boy who was just reaped, is slowly making his way to the stage, his green eyes wide with shock. His whole appearance looks very frazzled too—he stumbles every time he takes a step, and he bumps into one or two people before he finally makes his way up onto the steps.

"Do you have anything to say either?" The escort asks, jutting the microphone in front of his face.

Braxton doesn't respond, just staring ahead into the large crowd with a clouded gaze.

God, he had that same exact gaze when he was reaped.

 _Don't do it Rufus. Mentoring only ends badly, that's why they make you do it._

"I'll take that as a no!" The escort chimes cheerfully, then turns back toward the two tributes. "And to Marguerite and Braxton, may the odds be ever in your favor!"

He hopes they are.

* * *

 _Tiara Romano, 63._

 _Capitol-Chosen District Eleven Mentor._

Every year she wonders why she even signed up for this.

Most of the time, the tributes from District Eleven are scrawny and meager, with so much dirt on their bony bodies they look like they took a mud bath before coming to the reaping. And apparently, reaping day is the day they're supposed to look their nicest! It hurts her head to even imagine what they look like normally.

They have no chance, _so why should she even waste her precious energy on them?_ None of the dirty little street rats has ever won, and by this rate, none of them ever will. It's not worth her time to _try_.

She watches the crowd with a dull interest, her mind drifting to other things. Mainly, it's the idea of having her and her tribute on the front cover of _Panem Weekly_ if they ever win.

Okay, well then maybe she should try, even if it's just a little. For the sake of _Panem Weekly_ , not the snot-nosed dirty brats who are about to be reaped. Yes, for the sake of that. It's not like she actually cares about whether the kids die or not.

She smiles, trying to focus her attention on the escort, who is wearing a lovely pink tuxedo with matching cotton-candy pink hair that's gelled and slicked back. It's a very stylish outfit, if she does say so herself. She makes a mental note that if she ever got on the cover of _Panem Weekly_ , she'd wear something like that.

The escort, whose name is Flavian, (she only knows that because she slept with him once, in a moment of weakness, but that's beside the point) reaches his hand into the bottom of the bowl and pulls out a name.

"Manisha Rollins!" Flavian tells the crowd, smiling wide.

Tiara expects the tribute to be another dirty little girl, just like the tributes the past few years have been, and to no one's surprise, she is. Her hair is very curly and frizzy, spiraling in all directions. It looks like she didn't even brush it this morning—or ever. Her skin is a light caramel shade, lighter the tributes have been in the past, and it looks like dirt. Tiara squirms in her seat just looking at her. _Disgusting._

Manisha begins to wallow toward the stage, her head lowered in shame (it should be, just for her nasty appearance alone). She looks like a deflated balloon—tired and solemn—as if she had already given up before the fight had even begun. After a while Tiara can't look at her anymore, but not because she feels sorry for her. No, it's because her hair is just so unkempt!

She doesn't think it could get worse, but it does. When the boy is reaped, (she forgets his name already, it's that unimportant) she gasps. His hair is just—it's just—she doesn't even have words to describe how horrendous his hair is!

Who even has an afro anymore? This isn't the prepanemeian era!

Tiara can't do this anymore. Nothing eventful is happening anyway. The boy looks shocked as they normally are and is struggling to make his way up to the stage. She looks away entirely, mumbling consoling words under her breath to herself.

"It's okay, the Capitol will fix them," she tells herself. "It'll be okay. You won't have to look at them for long."

 _Oh, being a mentor is so hard!_

* * *

 _Nemo Nightvale, 54._

 _Capitol-Chosen District Twelve Mentor._

Being a mentor has never been easy.

Of course, there are the children dying. It hurts for a while after, watching the children you practically raised as your own for an entire week get slaughtered brutally. Yet after a month or so he begins to forget their names, then their faces, and finally by the time the Hunger Games roll around again he forgets everything about them entirely.

It's so agonizing he can barely watch the escort fish the name out of the reaping bowl.

"North Brier!"

A boy in the crowd shrieks, which makes his heart drop. _Is it her brother? Her friend? A boyfriend?_ He can only imagine the pain that he's going through right now.

All the girls standing around the reaped tribute turn toward her, making North recognizable from all the way up on the stage. She looks angry, the coffee-colored skin on her face twisted into a grimace and her fists clenched in anger. Her eyes are closed tightly and she begins to walk forward slowly, her breaths heavy.

"No! You can't take her, she's all I have left!" The boy screams, trying to escape from the strong arms of a peacekeeper. Yet, he can't, his skinny frame overpowered by the sheer size of the peacekeeper holding him.

Nemo feels a tear roll down on his face as he watches the sad scene. It was just—so emotional. _Why couldn't they just reap the entire tribute's family and friends so then no one would be sad?_ Plus, it would make for a more entertaining Hunger Games, seeing how far people would go to survive, even if survival meant killing their loved ones?

 _What a wonderful idea!_ Maybe he should be a gamemaker instead. It would definitely be less taxing on him emotionally, that's for sure.

"Mortimer Maximus!"

A high-pitched scream echoes from somewhere in the crowd. A little girl evades the arms of a peacekeeper and runs towards the reaped tribute, gripping onto his leg fiercely.

Tears roll down her face like droplets of rain, shimmering in the dim sunlight. Mortimer bends down, giving the girl, who is presumably his sister, a weak smile.

He whispers something to the girl, stroking her frizzled dark hair. She stops crying and just stares up at him with wide eyes, her arms untwisting from his leg. He hands her something Nemo can't quite see from all the way on the stage, then begins to walk forward. His face is calm, yet inside, Nemo can imagine the storm swirling.

He turns to the mayor sitting beside him, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief he keeps in his pocket for this day specifically.

"This is so sad!" Nemo exclaims, twisting his face into a frown after the tributes shake hands. "I'll do my best to save them, I promise! They are just too pure for the Hunger Games!"

The mayor doesn't respond, looking forward into the crowd with cloudy eyes.

"They're all too pure for the Hunger Games," he grumbles, then stands and walks away. Nemo wonders what's he means, but he decides it's not important. Just like the tributes who just got reaped, he'll forget about it soon enough.

* * *

 **A/N:** _8.9k words on the chapter content itself? Okay, maybe I went a little bit overboard... oops. I was just so excited to write something that wasn't a introduction I got carried away, so feel free to definitely not read all of it. All the mentor stuff wasn't really important, save for one or two POVs and characters that may or may not come into play later. Check out the D7 section if you want to know a little more. And I wanted to make myself laugh so I made all those Capitolites so over the top. Especially Tiara. So that's that._

 _I won't say much else, except I did change a few things to make it more dramatic, because a 9k word chapter about tributes getting reaped with none of their thoughts can be a bit boring and repetitive. So if your tribute didn't have exactly the reaction you wanted, don't worry. It's not a big deal, they'll show their true colors later._

 _See you all for train rides, when we first see our tributes interact! Exciting? You bet!_

 _paper :)_


	16. Train Rides I: Tensions Rise

_Train Rides I: Tensions Rise_

* * *

 _Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Male._

* * *

The last person to visit him is the one person he never expected would come: Silver Vasquez.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise as Silver, his childhood competitor and rival, a boy of few words who prefers to speak with his fists instead of his words, enters the room unannounced as if they've been friends for ages, like they've visited each other countless times throughout the years and are perfectly comfortable with one another enough that neither has to speak. Clay never expected the boy to come here if he wasn't the chosen tribute, and after the devastating and surprising loss just a week ago at District One's academy, Clay only thought this place would conjure up feelings of shame and lost hope within Silver. If Clay had been in his situation—the chosen volunteer for years up until suddenly—he's not—he would have avoided this building like the plague.

"Silver?" Clay squawks, his cold grey eyes widening as they rest upon the tall and muscled boy.

Silver raises his head and looks Clay right in the eyes. "I know," he mutters, looking down at his fighting hands, "you must be surprised."

The volunteer nods, then lets his pale lips twist into a slight grin. "Yeah, that's the understatement of the century. Why are you here?"

Silver shrugs then looks down at his feet bashfully. "I—I," he stutters for a moment, then pauses entirely, his jaw hanging open. "I don't know."

Clay doesn't respond, watching silently as Silver begins to walk around the room. His longtime rival walks past him and begins to run his calloused fingers against the blank white wall, then traces the small golden seal of One just below the window behind him.

"This—" Silver whispers, his voice no louder than that of a mouse's, "this could have been me."

Clay just stands in the center of the room, watching listlessly as the other boy looks away once more and continues to run his fingers along the outside of the seal. He doesn't know what to do; he doesn't know what to say. Normally, Clay is loud, extroverted and charismatic—he always knows what to say and when to say it—his social skills are as "golden" as the rest of him. Yet right now, he's stunned speechless, helpless to watch as the boy who probably should have been here in his place watch his dream get lived out by Clay, his longtime rival.

"I could never understand, Clay," Silver murmurs, turning back to him. "How you could be so perfect at everything—everything—everything you tried you were good at. I remember always being the best student at school until you came around and won the third-grade class spelling bee; I was the best athlete until you decided you wanted to play sports too; I got all the girls until you came around and swooped them off their feet—"

"Silver."

The boy's voice begins to rise. "I was good—I was good, but I was never as good as you. You were always perfect, but that never was enough for you, was it?"

"Silver," Clay repeats calmly, his tone more forceful this time.

"You always needed to be the best. You couldn't let me be better than you, could you?"

He doesn't answer the question, looking down at his shuffling feet sheepishly.

Silver is screaming now, his voice echoing off the white walls. "I finally thought I was better than you at something, but you couldn't let me have that either? You just needed to go to the Hunger Games so you could be the best—so you could be the golden boy—so you could be the hero! But you know what? I want to be the hero sometimes too!"

"Silver."

"What? What is it? What else do you want to take from me?"

"I don't want anything from you, Silver. I just want to say I'm sorry."

The boy across from him begins to laugh maniacally. "Sorry? Sorry? You're sorry for ruining my entire life?"

"Yes, I'm sorry."

Silver continues to laugh, shaking his head back and forth at him in disbelief. "Sometimes sorry doesn't cut it, Clay. I hope you realize how lucky you are to be here because I'd die to be in your shoes right now. I'd kill for it. But you—everything just comes to you on a silver platter."

"It doesn't," Clay replies, his mind drifting to his narcolepsy. "I have things I struggle with too, and I've had to work for this as much as you have too."

"That's BS," Silver scoffs. "People call you the Golden Boy of District One for a reason, and it's not because you have blonde hair. You win every game you've ever played without even trying. You've never lost anything a day in your life."

"Look Silver, " Clay mutters, stepping forward and trying to comfortingly pat his shoulder. Yet, just as Clay placed his hand on Silver's shoulder, the angry boy yanked it away, scowling at him.

"Don't touch me," he hissed.

Clay places his hand back down at his side. "I'm sorry. I wish I knew how you felt beforehand."

"Oh, don't _I'm sorry_ me. Your apology means nothing to me Clay, nothing. If you really were sorry for me, you would have let me win that fight last week."

Just as he says that, the door opens slightly, and a peacekeeper pokes his head in.

"Time to wrap it up," the man in the white suit orders.

"Good, because I'm done here anyway," Silver spits, pushing Clay aside and stomping toward the door. Clay stumbles and falls against the wall, catching himself with his hands before his body makes constant.

Clay feels his nostrils begin to fume, yet, quickly calms himself down by taking a deep breath. Silver wasn't worth it—he was just angry and jealous and still in disbelief that it wasn't him going to the games. A part of him thought the boy was coming to make amends, but really, he just came to solidify that they'd always be enemies, sworn to fight each other always.

But then again, if his parents gave him the name Silver—he'd be mad too that he was always doomed to be second place.

Before Silver leaves entirely, he turns back to face Clay one last time, his eyes burning with rage. "I hope you learn what it's like to lose, Golden Boy," Silver hisses angrily, "because you're going to be going up against at least three other careers who have won their entire lives too, and only one of you can win. I'll pray to whoever is out there that it's not you this time."

Then the slams the door, leaving Clay to wonder how the hell he's going to get through these games with his narcolepsy if Silver was already making him feel a little sleepy.

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

The goodbyes fly by all too fast.

Her parents are the first ones to send her off, and to be honest, neither of them really look sad she's leaving. Her mother's favorite child was always Alfie, and once he died, she never really loved Hana the way she loved him. She doesn't mind—or rather, she always tells herself she doesn't. Hana always wished their relationship had been closer, but now was too late to change that. And her father—well, her father and her got in fights daily, and he only put up with her "unacceptable and unnatural homosexual behavior" because he knew she'd be going off to the games soon and when she won she'd bring him the fame and fortune he'd always craved.

But little does he know she's not giving him anything—not even one penny. All the money is going to her and Shuri, and if she has anything to do with it, he won't see any of it.

"We're so proud of you," her mother coos, enveloping her in a tight hug. "Your brother would be too."

"I know," Hana whispers. "He always said he wanted to see me kicking some butt on that screen, and I will. I won't let him down. I know he's watching wherever he is."

Her father stands back at a distance, staring at her with cloudy eyes. He doesn't say anything for a while, then after a minute or so he speaks in a low grumble.

"You only have one chance. Don't screw it up," he grits through his teeth.

Before Hana can reply, the peacekeepers open the door and tell them their time is up.

"We love you!" her mother calls over her shoulder as she exits through the doorway. Her father doesn't say anything or even bother to look back at her. He just walks out of the room with his head lowered and his eyes fixated on the cold stone floor.

"I love you too," she mutters softly, then the door is closed, and she's left in silence again.

However, it's not silent for long. A minute later Shuri comes rushing in and doesn't even give her a moment to breathe before pushing her body up against the hard wall. Leaning forward, she presses her soft lips onto Hana's mouth.

"That—" Hana gasps into between kisses. "...was...fast. . ."

Shuri just grins, pulling away from Hana. "I want to make the most of the time they give us together. It's far too short, in my opinion."

Hana lets loose a short burst of joyous and bubbly laughter. "When I win, we'll have all the time in the world."

Her girlfriend blinks, her face slumping slightly. Hana notices this and twists her lips into a frown. "What? What is it?"

Shuri shrugs, looking away sheepishly. "Nothing, it's nothing."

"I promise I'll come back," Hana reassured, stroking Shuri's cheek. "We both know it: there is no one more prepared to win the games than me. And I don't break promises—I never have, and I never will."

Nodding her head slowly, Shuri lowers her hand into her dress pocket and pulls out a bronze coin. She places it in Hana's palm, then locks her dark eyes on Hana's own.

"Take this," the skinny girl soothed. "It's been passed down through my mother's family for generations. It's our good luck charm."

Hana picks up the small coin and holds it between her fingers. Narrowing her eyes, she examines the coin's surface thoroughly.

"On one side there is a dragon—it represents strength and pride," Shuri explains. "On the other side, there's an insect. That represents humbleness and conservativeness. I hope it serves as a reminder that to win, you must have a balance of both."

Hana nods her head, taking one last look at the coin and slipping it into her dress pocket. "Alright. Now, do you want to get back to uh—making the most of our time?"

Shuri smirks, and this time, it's Hana who grabs her arm and pulls her close. Her girlfriend lets out a squeak of surprise and then they're kissing again, and Hana forgets where she is and that she's only minutes away from beginning the greatest adventure of her young life. It's like they're back in her living room again, hoping that Hana's dad doesn't come home early and catch them. When her lips are on Shuri's, it's like time froze.

Yet, it's only an illusion. She doesn't hear the peacekeeper come in to tell Shuri her time is up, but the next thing she knows her girlfriend is being torn away from her, their lips parting for the final time.

"I'll see you in a few weeks!" Shuri yells just as the door shuts and she disappears for forever.

 _Well, not for forever._ Hana will be back in a few weeks, just like Shuri said.

There is nothing standing in the way of victory for her but twenty-three other measly tributes, but if killing them is what it takes to her back to Shuri, they'll drop like flies.

After a few moments of sitting in silent anticipation of what's next, a peacekeeper enters and tells her it's time to leave. Her mood changes instantly, all thoughts of regret from leaving Shuri behind fleeting from her mind. Now, her feet twitch with excitement and adrenaline; she bounds out the door and flies past the slightly stunned peacekeeper.

 _She's here, it's the moment she's been waiting for her entire life and she's really here!_

She's so excited that she doesn't see Pilate as she rounds the corner. Thankfully, he reacts fast and jumps out of the way right before they're about to collide.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" he barks angrily, glaring at her with cold and icy eyes.

Hana shrinks back, smiling bashfully. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just so excited to get to the train and the Capitol that I forgot there were other people here too."

Pilate frowns at her, brushing flecks of dirt of his shirt. "I'm not scared," he growls, his glare turning even icier then she humanly thought possible. "I don't get scared."

Anxious laughter erupts from her mouth. "Oh, that's good. I really hoped I didn't startle you. I'm Hana by the way, but I already think we met. You're Pilate, Draco's boyfriend, right?"

The boy's nostrils fume like an angry dragon. " _He. Is. Not. My. Boyfriend,_ " he growls through gritted teeth. "Didn't you see me punch him back there?"

Hana furrows her eyebrow in confusion, trying to remember what happened at the reaping. "Oh, that was him? Did you guys like—break up?"

"Yeah, we like—broke up," Pilate replies, mimicking her voice in a snotty tone.

Hana shutters, but manages to maintain her bright smile. Her district partner hopefully just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. He probably normally wasn't this cold or rude, or at least, she hoped he wasn't. That would make the games a lot less enjoyable for her, that's for sure.

"Isn't this all so exciting?" she asks him, trying to change the subject. "Look, there is the train!" she exclaims, pointing at the luxurious silver bullet train waiting idly behind the town hall for them. "It's even more beautiful then I imagined! You know, I've dreamed about this day exactly thirty-seven times! I can't believe this is all actually happening! It feels surreal!"

He raised his eyebrows at her and gave her a look like she was a crazy lunatic.

"Are you normally this annoying?" Pilate inquired, rolling his eyes at her.

"Are you normally this bitchy, because I only thought little girls could whine like you do?" she shot back, giving him a devilish smile.

His cheeks instantly flushed red, and he looked away in embarrassment.

Yeah, that shut him right up.

* * *

 _Skylar "Sky" Baxter, 17._

 _District Three Male._

* * *

Freyja is pacing back and forth through the dining cart, her hands buried in her curly ginger hair. Sky sits on one of the chairs next to the bar, watching her walk with a pair of calculating brown eyes.

"How could this have happened? How could we both have gotten reaped? My dad said he'd rig the names so I'd never get chosen for the Games! Who could have ratted us out?"

Sky shrugs, leaning against the curved iron cast back of the chair. "What are you looking at me for?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at her. "I know just as much as you. Nothing."

"It was probably Mary—I've always hated that woman. She was always just so rude to me."

"Who is Mary?" Sky asks, picking up a truffle and plopping it into his mouth.

"My dad's personal secretary," Freyja responds plainly.

"Oh, the one with that giant mole on her face?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

Sky snorts then begins to twirl around in his chair, spinning round and round until everything is just one blurry mess. Freyja keeps talking about possible suspects who could have ratted them out—their maids, his dad's best friend, her aunt. After a while, he stops listening. _It's like she was surprised this happened!_ For Skylar, he always knew this day would come, it was just a matter of when. For Freyja, Sky guessed this was an impossible scenario she never thought could have happened because her daddy was so big and powerful. But he knows power is just an illusion, and the sooner she realizes that, the better off she'll be.

"Why are you doing that when we have a conspiracy to uncover?" she yelps, glaring at him with a stern gaze.

"Look," Sky replies bluntly. "Our parents may have been ratted out, but does it matter who did it?"

"Yes, yes it does!" the ginger-haired girl exclaims, throwing her arms out to the sides for extra emphasis.

He shakes his head. "No, it really doesn't. Our parents were bad people, and there were plenty of people who hated them and wanted to see them suffer. It doesn't do us or them any good to figure out who it was. We got reaped, and you can't reverse that. Figuring out who did it doesn't change the fact we're going to die. All we can do is think of the best game plan we can to try to get ourselves out of here."

Freyja grunts, folding her arms over her chest. "Fine, my gameplan is to join the careers."

He's surprised that he feels a little hurt. He expected her to say they could ally and maybe find some other strong, trustworthy tributes to round out their alliance. They knew each other before the games but were never friends; Sky didn't have any friends. Everyone was scared of the head peacekeeper's son enough to stay away, even the equally hated mayor's daughter. Yet, they were at least acquaintances; she was one known thing in a strange and foreign place full of unknowns. Logically, it'd benefit them to both be allies.

"You really think they'd let you join them?" Sky asks, raising an eyebrow.

Freyja laughs, rolling her eyes. "Of course, why wouldn't they? I'm trained."

Sky already knows this though: it's the not-so-secret secret of District Three. Rumors have floated around for years that Mayor Abbott trained his only daughter, and her being reaped only confirmed the rumors to be true.

"You seem confident they'll take you," Sky responds bluntly. "A little too confident if you ask me. You are trained, but not in an academy. They'll think you're bluffing just to get some meat shields around you."

Freyja's face all of a sudden slumps, and when she speaks, her tone is bitter. "A little too confident? Bluffing? You don't even know me, Sky. I know my odds of victory just like everyone else, 1 in 24. And I certainly don't lie. I'm no liar."

His shoulders stiffen, and he feels tension fill the room. "The mayor's daughter? Not a liar?"

"I don't lie," Freyja repeats, glaring at him with a sharp gaze that could cut through stone. "You don't even know me."

"I know that you've lied for years about not being trained."

Freyja stops pacing back and forth, her body going rigid. She looks away from him and takes a deep breath in, then exhales slowly.

"I'm not like my father," she mutters, keeping her head lowered and her eyes focused on the floor. "And don't compare me to him. I just think you're jealous because I have the skills to join the careers and you don't."

Sky scoffs. "Me? Jealous of you? Jealous of some snotty little brat who wears diamonds around her neck to impress people that just pretend to like her because her daddy will make their lives a living hell if they don't?"

The ginger girl stomps her foot on the ground and raises her head to look at him. "Well at least I'm not some lazy little Capitol boy who thinks he's so above everyone that he doesn't even have friends and doesn't need to go to school because he thinks he's some kind of child prodigy and just sits around all day in his house and plays video games!" she screeches, her green eyes blazing with fury.

Her screaming alerts their mentor, Alessio. He comes rushing in from the television cart, flinging the door open hastily. "What's going on?" he questions, his eyes darting frantically between the two of them.

"I just found out one person I won't be allying with," Sky hisses, glaring at his district partner.

Rolling her eyes, Freyja laughs. "You're funny. Once I'm with the careers, I won't need you anyway. We'll kill you so fast you won't even know what happened."

"Well—I'll kill you first. I'm going to make the best alliance the games have ever seen, just you wait."

Alessio squeaks, holding his hands up into the air as they were a stop sign. "Guys, how about we calm down? This reaction is completely normal, you're probably both just upset that you got reaped. How about we eat some food, then we ca—"

Freyja turns away, opening the door to the television cart and storming out.

"Wait!" his mentor calls after her, but she's already gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

"I'm going to go find some allies that aren't complete bitches," Sky growls, turning and walking the other way. He doesn't need Freyja. He'll do it on his own and form the best outer-district alliance the games have ever seen. Freyja won't know what even hit her when his sword comes crashing down on her skull.

 _Only, does he want to put in the work to get himself out of here?_

Yes, he does. Or at least, he hopes he can.

* * *

 _Coraline "Coral" Seaton, 17._

 _District Four Female._

* * *

She finds her district partner in the bar cart, smiling devilishly at the bartender.

"I'll take two mojitos," he requested, leaning against the bar confidently.

"How old are you again?" the bartender asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Eighteen," Archer fibs, tapping his fingers against the countertop. Coral raises her brow as she watches him curiously, a small smile forming on her face. She could tell she liked this kid already. He reminded her of her mischievous older brother, always lying and getting himself into trouble.

The bartender narrows his eyes into small slits. "I heard a moment ago from your escort that two seventeen-year-olds were the tributes this year. You want to try that again?"

Archer laughs nervously, his freckled face flushing red. "I mean—yeah, I'm seventeen, but I have the mind of an eighteen-year-old, you know?"

"I actually don't know," the bartender responds bitterly, blinking in annoyance at the red-haired boy.

Archer stutters but maintains his bright and sly smile. Coral sees this as a moment for her to step in—she's always been her older brother's "backup", so this isn't her first rodeo covering up other people's lies.

"What he means to say is it's his eighteenth birthday tomorrow," Coral blurts, taking a step toward the bar to make herself known in the conversation. Archer flies upward in surprise.

"Yeah, that's what I meant," he covers up, giving Coral a thankful smile. "I feel like I'm eighteen because I practically am."

The bartender exchanges skeptical glances with the two of them then shakes his head. "Look, kids, I'm sorry, but the law is the law. The drinking age out in the Districts is eighteen, and there are no exceptions. Nice try though."

"But in the Capitol, it's only sixteen!" Coral exclaims.

"We're not in the Capitol yet, sweetheart," he replies, giving her a sorry-not-sorry smile.

 _Oh, he did not just call her sweetheart._ Feeling her nostril begin to flare, Coral spits at him and reaches forward, grabbing the beer bottle sitting just in front of him on the counter. The bartender tries to grab her hand but she's much quicker than he is, her reflexed primed from all her years spearfishing.

"Come on, let's get out of here!" Coral yelps, grabbing Archer's hand and pulling him through the cart. The bartender yells after them but they're already out the door by the time he gets out from behind the bar, flying through the next cart.

They run through the television cart and eventually make their way into Coral's private room, where she locks the door behind her and huffs in relief.

"Woah, that was so sick!" Archer exclaims, smiling wide at her.

"Thanks," she replies, blushing slightly from the compliment.

He nods his head. "I'm Archer by the way, but you can call me Archer for short. It's nice to meet you—that is, when we aren't in front of a million people and cameras."

"Yeah, it's nice to meet you too. I'm Coraline Seaton, but my friends just call me Coral."

"Okay well, Coral, there is no one else I'd rather have as my district partner. You must have balls of steel to do take that from the bartender like that. I'm glad I have someone like that on my side."

Archie extends his hand so she can shake it.

Coral giggles, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it firmly.

"You have a strong handshake!" Coral professes in surprise, her eyes widening slightly.

"You're pretty strong yourself," Archie chortles back. "Did you ever train at the academy?"

She shakes her head. "No, but I come from a family of fishermen. Lifting all those fish out of the water really does build up the muscle over time! Plus, you have to strong to spearfish, like I do."

Archie nods. "That cool. Are you thinking about joining the careers? With a handshake like that, I bet they'd take you in a heartbeat."

Coraline's eyes widen. "You really think they'd take me?"

"Of course they would! You said you spearfish too? You probably have excellent accuracy with spears, so they'd all be idiots not to take you."

Her smile is wide when she replies. "Okay, cool," she coos, then looks down to the beer bottle sitting in her hand. "So, do you want to crack this baby open?"

"Do I?" He responds, grabbing the bottle from out of her hand. "Of course I do! Here, let me show you a trick."

Placing his thumb under the cap, he flicks it up with his nail and pops the top open effortlessly. "If you can't tell, this isn't my first time doing this."

Coral giggles again, pretending like she's done this before too. However, she's never had a sip of alcohol in her life; it's not that she doesn't want to—she does, but rather, her overprotective foster father watches her every move, not wanting to lose her like he lost her parents. Yet, she's a good actress, hopefully enough to convince Archie she's cool too. She really likes her district partner, and she wants to be part of the careers, so she can't take the chance of him thinking that she was a wuss and ruining their relationship. She watches as he sips from the bottle slowly, and when he hands it over to her, she does the same, sipping it too.

Then she goes to swallow, but finds herself spitting it all out, the taste repulsive to her taste buds. It splatters all over his clothes, which only makes him laugh harder.

"Ick, that was disgusting!" Coral expresses, contorting her face into a disgusted expression. "You _like_ drinking that?"

Archie shrugs, taking another sip from the bottle. "Eh, you get used to it."

Suddenly, the two of them hear a knock on the door, and Coral feels her heart stop. She squeaks slightly, then jumps to her feet. _Shoot, it's the bartender!_

"Hide it!" Archie exclaims, leaping up and stuffing the bottle under a pillow resting on the chair beside them.

On the other side of the door, Coral hears the confused voice of her mentor. "What in the world are you two doing in there?"

A sigh of relief escapes her lips, and she feels her muscles relax.

"Oh, thank god it's just Mags," Archie exhales, practically reading her own thoughts. He then turns to her and gives her a small smile. "She'll be chill."

Archie walks back to the chair and grabs the beer bottle as Coral unlocks the door. A second later, their mentor walked into the room, her eyes widening the moment she spots the bottle sitting in Archie's hand.

"How did you get your hands on one of those?" Mags questions, tilting her head to the side slightly. "I can't even get myself one!"

Both them exchange a nervous glance then shrug. Coral almost forgets that their mentor is only seventeen too—before she volunteered for the games, she was in their classes at school and was just another normal kid.

"You know what—I don't want to know."

"Good idea," Archie quips.

"I thought so," she replies. "Anyway, are you two up for a quick chat? I'm new to this whole mentoring thing, so I don't really know what I'm doing, but just want to gauge where both your heads are at right now."

Coral nods. "I'm a little nervous but otherwise I'm feeling pretty confident, how about you Archie?"

He takes another sip from the bottle. "Yep, feeling great."

"Good," Mags says. "Are two you thinking about any possible allies?"

"Each other," Archie replies, turning to Coral and giving her a friendly pat on the shoulder. "As long as that's okay with you, of course."

She nods her head slowly, trying to keep her cool. "Yeah, I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

* * *

 _Solomon Nyguen, 17._

 _District Five Male._

* * *

It's as if breaks everything he touches.

Luna stands in the doorway as he steps onto the train, a hopeful smile plastered on her face despite everything that just happened, despite all the shit that just went down all because of him. But if anyone could stay positive in a situation like this, it'd be Luna. He never saw her frown a day in her life, and they've been living together for seventeen long years.

And now, she's going to die and it's all his fault. Because of his impulsive decision, his parents are going to have to watch both their children die painful and brutal deaths while they can only sit back and watch helplessly. If only he stayed quiet, if only he waited one more year—

He thought volunteering for the Hunger Games would lift a weight of his parents' shoulders, yet, it only increased the already massive burden they have to bear. It was naïve of him to think that dying would make his parents less stressed and less heartbroken. Plus, he didn't even think of the impact it would have on his sister. He knows behind her bright smile there are invisible tears. Yet, she'll never let anyone know they are there.

"Sol," she coos, outstretching her arms to give him a hug.

He pulls away just as her soft hands touch him. "Leave me alone."

Luna takes a deep breath. "Please. Let's talk about this."

"I don't want to talk," he hisses bitterly, his eyes angled toward the floor. He feels so guilty he can't even meet her bright eyes when they speak.

"I just want to know—"

"Go away!" Solomon screeches, then begins to run. He doesn't know where he's going but he just needs to get away, away from his sister, away from her bright smile that couldn't fade even if the world was ending that minute, away from what he did and the reality of their desolate situation.

"Sol!" Luna yells after him, her scream still quieter than some other people's normal voices. She keeps calling after him but he doesn't listen; he flings open a door and then he's in another cart, but his legs don't stop, they keep running until he's in cart three—four—five—six—and by then he's losing count, _how big is this train anyway?_ Luna has faded into the past, but he can still see her bright smile. It doesn't leave his line of vision even when he blinks, and he just keeps running, his surroundings a blur of fancy wallpaper and extravagant furniture, buffets of food piled high as mountains and golden wine glasses, strange people with strange colored hair and strange outfits that make them look like clowns.

Then he flings open another door and flies into a cart with a massive window that stretches the entire height and length of the wall. There are no more doors: he's reached the end of the line. Feeling his feet halt to a stop, he watches as the dirty cityscape of Five begins to look more like a children's toy set than an actual city full of actual people. Within minutes, everything he's ever known is just one tiny blur in the distance, the buildings no bigger than specks.

Suddenly, his eyes fill with silver tears.

 _What has he done? What has he done?_

Sol feels his legs give out beneath him and he collapses to the floor in a fit of tears.

He wants to die, he wants to die now; he wants all the pain, regret and guilt he feels to vanish from his body and for his mind to just go blank and fill with a peaceful nothingness.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small box with his name on it in red letters. Twisting the top open, he reveals a handful of white morphling tablets—all perfectly round and circular—just the right number to kill him without making it hurt. He can go in bliss.

He can do it right here. He can leave this world and all the pain that comes with living; he can forget about his grieving parents and his death-bound sister and everything bad about life. _He's going to die within the week anyway, so why doesn't he just get it over with?_

Scooping up a few tablets in his palm, he raises them up to his lips and dangles them just above his open mouth, only one move away from sure death.

But then, just as he's about to release, he remembers Luna and her bright smile, the way that nothing can break her optimism and cause that golden smile to fade.

 _Not even him._

He can't leave her. If he's going to die—he should make it count. Dying here wouldn't help get her home, and if anything, it would only make it harder. If he can save her, maybe his death wouldn't be so hard on his parents.

So he places the morphling tablets back into his box and seals them up tightly, trying desperately to block the dark thoughts out of his mind.

He'll do it for Luna. She deserves to live, and he's going to do everything in his power to make sure she sees District Five again, and not in a wooden casket.

Yet, he keeps the morphling in his pocket just in case things go downhill, because with him, they always do.

* * *

 _Winnifred "Freddie" Ellison, 16._

 _District Six Female._

* * *

"So, what are you guys thinking for strategies?" her mentor Buick asks, folding his hands over each other as they all sit around the round table.

On the other side of the table, Raleigh is writing the question down for her deaf district partner so he can answer it too. Tyrell nods his head slowly as he reads the question through his thick black shades, then takes the pencil and begins to scribble down words on the page.

Freddie turns back to Buick. "I was thinking I'd just wing it," she mutters, shrugging her shoulders indifferently.

He narrows his eyes at her. "No, that's not a good idea."

"Why not?" Freddie asks, narrowing her eyes back at him. She didn't like the way the older of her two mentors looks at her; every time he glances her way he gives her a look of pity, of _oh, you're just some dumb confused kid who has no idea what they're getting into._

Yet, she knows what she's getting into. She doesn't need anyone to baby her and tell her it's okay, it'll be alright, because it's not. It's not going to be alright. She's sixteen fucking years old and she's not a child. Buick looks at her like she is; like she's some scared, naïve, wide-eyed doe who needs to be protected at all costs.

 _Just tell her the truth. Just tell her she's going to have to kill people if she wants to get out of here, and that she's never going to be the same again. Just tell her that there is going to be so much blood that she'll only be able to see red when it's all over and tell her that if she wants to win, she's going to have to betray those she trusts the most and slit the throats of the innocent._

However, Buick doesn't. He just gives her the same I'm sorry look he's been giving the deaf and hopelessly dead boy all afternoon. "Because it's stupid," he replies, not giving her the exact answer she's looking for.

"Well, Raleigh did it," she retorts back, glaring at her other mentor who was writing down a conversation with Tyrell. In the meantime, she could feel her district partner's eyes rest on her through his dark shades. She can't see him watching her, but she knows he is; she's heard something about deaf people having better eyesight than their normal-eared counterparts or something like that. But then again, she's wrong about intelligent stuff like that most of the time, so maybe he's not watching her, and maybe he's lost in his own little terrified world knowing his days are numbered. Maybe she's just paranoid and scared and—

 _No, she's not scared._ She's confident and strong and knows that she can get through this.

"Well, Raleigh almost died," Buick quips back. "Do you want to almost die?"

"I'd rather almost die than not live at all," she fires back, hoping that they'll tell her the truth this time, that she's doomed and strategy won't help her. Meanwhile, Raleigh sits silently, his eyes fixed intently on a random spot on the table.

"Well we'd rather you live and not almost die," Buick responds, his voice tainted with harshness. "So pick a strategy, okay?"

"Strategies are stupid," Freddie growls back. "Plans never work out anyway."

"Are you trying to pick a fight with us?" Buick asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Maybe," she replies, grinning slyly. She isn't normally this agitated, but right now, she just feels like she needs to self-sabotage herself for some strange reason.

He sighs. "Look, we know you're scared and afraid, okay?"

"I'm not," she spits. "Do I look scared and afraid? I'm not crying like some other kids do. I'm ready for this."

Raleigh from the other side of the table sighs, then opens his mouth to speak. "Look Freddie, I know how you feel. I was there two years ago. You're trying to seem bigger and stronger then you are. I did it too. But guess what? Everyone's scared. Everyone's afraid. It's okay to be a little scared, after all, this is a fight to the death."

She shutters and swears she can feel Tyrell's sharp eyes on her, piercing through her skull.

"We just don't want you to get hurt," Buick mutters, his eyes fixated on her.

"Well I'm going to fucking die so I'd rather take getting hurt over that!" she exclaims, then soon realizes maybe she's being a little bit too loud. The picture frames with paintings of far-off exotic lands shake slightly as she yells. Tyrell doesn't seem to notice though, his eyes still studying her intently behind his dark glasses. Or, she's imaging that they are.

Raleigh sighs. "We're you're mentors for a reason, Freddie. We're not here to help you die, we're here to help you win. We've done it before, so you should take our advice, alright?"

And then he pauses for a moment, a small smirk emerging on his face. "Or at least pretend to," he adds with a grin.

Freddie doesn't return the smile. She can feel her feet bouncing against the floor—she's getting restless, agitated, and she needs to move. She hates sitting, she always has, and her badgering mentors are only making the situation worse. All of a sudden, she feels claustrophobic, like the room is shrinking and everything is getting closer, closer, closer—

Abruptly, she shoots up and out of her chair. Tyrell flinches when she does so, only furthering her suspicion that he was watching her like a hawk. "I need to go punch something," she snaps, "because if I stay here any longer, it's going to be the deaf boy's face that's getting punched."

Tyrell frowns. "I wouldn't."

All of a sudden, her eyes widen, and she turns back around to face him. "So the deaf boy can talk, hmm? I wasn't crazy, I knew you were watching me behind those thick glasses."

"You're pretty crazy," he retorts back, giving her a sly smile that her mentors don't seem to see.

"How do you know what I'm saying if you're deaf then?"

He shrugs, then points to his lips.

"He told me he can read lips pretty well," Buick speaks for him. "But if you know sign language, that's his preferred mode of communication."

"Whatever, deaf boy over there can do what he wants. I'm leaving. And don't think about coming after me, because I don't need any strategy. I've gotten this far in life without it, and I'll get through the games without it too."

She closes the door, and before heading back to her room, she listens for one more moment.

"She reminds me of you," Buick mutters.

There is a pause, then Raleigh speaks again. "Yeah, and that's what scares me the most."

* * *

 **A/N:** _Another long chapter, but I think it was totally worth all that time it took to write to see the tributes interact! And here, we did get some pretty interesting interactions! I swear all the characters aren't normally this grumpy (well... some of them are), but I think after the reaping everyone would be pretty agitated._

 _I hope you all liked it, and maybe you can start to see some relationships (bad and good) forming! The second train ride chapter should be out around Wednesday of next week, as that's when my finals end. Anyway, every tribute will be getting two POVs before the games begin, and they'll all be 800-1.5k words, so I hope that gives everyone enough to to develop and for some plots to really get rolling, because I'd really say that I'm a plot driven writer, and I have some crazy little plots planned for these games._

 _Tell me what you think, and I'll see you all next time for train rides part 2! Have a nice week,_

 _paper :)_


	17. Train Rides II: We're Normal!

_Train Rides II: We're Normal_

* * *

 _Terra MacIntosh, 18._

 _District Seven Female._

* * *

It takes her a few hours to calm herself down.

During the reapings, she had able to maintain a straight face, but once she was behind the closed doors of her room all hell broke loose. She jumped onto her bed in a fit of tears, sobbing into her pillow for what seemed like days. Yet, when she looked at the blinking digital clock on the nightstand beside the bed it only read 2:10, barely two hours after the reaping ended.

 _Time seems to move slower here,_ she thinks, _but maybe that's not a bad thing, because she doesn't know how much time she's really going to have left._

She sobs again. She wishes she could be optimistic, that she could say there was still a chance she could make it home but is there? There are careers who've trained for years in the art of killing and other tributes who have worked tirelessly in the fields, strong as oxen. There are girls who make boys fall at their feet when they wink and others who are funny and witty: they are all bound to gain sponsors, unlike her. She's none of these things; pimples dot her skin and her brother always says she suffers from resting grumpy face. She isn't physically strong like the tributes from Seven, Nine, Ten, and Eleven usually are, and she certainly isn't trained like the careers.

After a few minutes, her cheeks are stained with dry salt and her lips and dried and cracked; she has no more tears to cry. She sits up and wipes her puffy eyes, clutching feverishly to the little stuffed lamb her niece gave her when she saw her crying back when she was saying goodbyes.

Terra wonders where her niece and nephew are now. They're probably back at home, playing in the mud like they always do in the afternoons. She doesn't think they're sad she left; they're too young to understand after all – only six and three, respectively. Her brother will probably just tell them she went away for a while when they ask, if they ever do.

And Rosa - well - her sister-in-law was probably celebrating. No more Terra, no angrier and jealous Terra to snap at her and tell her she'd give up anything to have her perfect little life. Her brother might even be happy too: she was just one more mouth to feed after coming to live with him, a burden more than anything else.

She wonders if they'll forget her eventually. The children will be first; she'll fade from their memories fast as they make new ones, and soon she'll just be a strange name people say sometimes when the Hunger Games come around again. Rosa will probably forget second, she's only known her for a year, and their relationship would be one both her and Terra would willingly want to block out. And then her parents, they'll grow old and their memories will fade as their age climbs, and someday – someday far from now, her face will fade from their minds too, a distant memory from a happier time. Lastly, it will be her brother. They've always been the closest, inseparable when young, and even closer as the years passed by. He'll probably remember her for his whole life, but then someday, he'll die too, and that's when she'll really be gone. After all that, she'll just be another footnote in history, a name that when people see in the death counts only brings sorrow, perhaps a glance of pity or two. They'll know nothing about her other than that she died some brutal death at the hands of another child who is also a footnote in history.

It's weird for her to think about how the world will turn out after she's gone, but she doubts it will be any different from what it is right now.

Suddenly, she feels very thirsty. Getting up from the bed, she makes her way over to the intercom on the wall and presses a little red button.

"Bring me some water," she orders but doesn't bother saying please. The Capitol doesn't deserve manners.

A moment later, there is a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," she murmurs, flopping herself back down on the bed.

The door creaks open and her mentor walks in with a glass of water in her left hand.

"Aren't avoxes supposed to wait on us?" Terra asks, narrowing her eyes at her mentor in confusion.

"You're right, but I thought I'd come to see how you're holding up."

Terra sighs, trying to wipe the dry tears off her cheeks. "I'm fine," she replies with a straight face, trying to look as strong as possible.

"I'm glad."

Her mentor hands her the water, and she raises the rim of the glass to her lips to take a sip. The water slides into her mouth – cool and refreshing, and tastes much sweeter than the dirty water that came out of the faucets back in Seven. She looks at the glass with surprise, and her mentor laughs.

"I know," she giggles, "you must be thinking it tastes better than the crap we have in Seven."

Terra's eyes widen. "How'd you know exactly what I was thinking?"

Daffodil smiles, taking a seat beside her on the bed. "A long time ago I was in your shoes too."

"Twelve years isn't a long time," Terra blinks.

Daffodil shrugs. "You're right, it's not," she replies. "But when I think about it, I can't remember my life before I was a victor. I can't remember a time where there was no Hunger Games."

Terra nods her head slowly. "I know. I can't remember a time either."

"Maybe someday we'll know what it feels like again," Daffodil responds, raising her head to look right at her.

Terra frowns. "A—are you implying the Hunger Games are ending?"

"I'm not implying anything," she says. "I'm just saying I'd like to know what it feels like again to not live in fear."

"Me too," Terra replies.

She swears she can see a small smile form on her mentor's face as she talks, but when she turns toward Daffodil it's gone, replaced by the same straight face she'd been wearing this whole time.

"Well, I'm glad to know that you're doing good," her mentor says, standing to her feet. The bed rises slightly as she sits up, the springs squeaking. "I think we should talk again, but I need to talk to Bruno first before I decide your strategies for the games. But I think if everything goes to plan, you'll have a good chance of making it out alive."

"Really?" Terra asks, her muscles seeming to relax slightly.

"Yeah," Daffodil responds. "But I don't think it's going to be in the way that you expect."

And then she leaves, leaving the puzzled Terra to wonder what the world she meant with that last comment.

* * *

 _Beckett Locke, 14._

 _District Eight "Female"._

* * *

They're all staring down at Gareth—the pale, frozen, and shocked Gareth who hasn't moved an inch since his name was called back in District Eight. Apparently, his dad tried to talk him out of the strange stupor he was stuck in, but even his familiar and comforting voice didn't work. A group of peacekeepers had to drag the boy onto the train by his limp arms since he couldn't even walk himself. Beckett knew fear better than most other emotions, but they'd never seen anything as severe as this. It was as if their district partner was under a strange and mystical spell.

It'd been two hours since they boarded the train now, and the boy still hadn't moved an inch. After an hour of having him slumped over on the floor, they moved him to one of the luxurious plush couches, which still didn't even make him flinch, much to their mentor's surprise.

The escort standing next to them also must have thought Gareth was under some type of spell, for after a considerable period of time she turned to Beckett and asked them to kiss Gareth, because you know, maybe that'd wake him up from the spell like it did in the old fairytales she read as a child in the Capitol.

"Y—you w—want me t—t—to kiss him?" Beckett stutters, their eyes wide with shock. They looked down at the statue-like Gareth, then back up at the escort, and then back down at Gareth again.

The escort nods happily. "Yep. True love's kiss is the only thing that can break a trance like this one, or so the books say. And everything you read is true, so this must be true too! True love is the most powerful thing in all of Panem!"

"T—true love?" they squeak. "But—but I don't even know him! How can it be true love?"

Plus, he's a guy, and Beckett doesn't even know if they're into guys. But they don't mention that part to the escort.

"You don't need to know someone for it to be true love! It's just something you know from the moment you first meet them!" she chirps excitedly.

Beckett's eyes go even wider. They're almost certain that's not true. "I—I'm pretty sure I—I don't think he's my true love."

"Well, you can never be sure until you kiss him!"

They feel their cheeks flush red, and they look back down at Gareth. Everything about this plan seemed so wrong, yet, they're too afraid to voice their concern to speak up. "Uh—I—I'm not too sure about this," is all they say instead, trying to express their doubt in a less confrontational way.

"Just do it!" the escort encourages. "What do you have to lose?"

"A—a lot," Beckett stutters nervously.

"Come on!"

Beckett gulps, leaning down and puckering her lips. They really don't want to do it—but they don't like the escort and maybe if they just kiss Gareth she'll leave them alone. Plus, they don't have the guts to tell the escort no.

"Eek! This is so exciting! I hope this works!" The escort squeals happily as Beckett closes their eyes and reluctantly places their lips on Gareth's. They're cold to the touch, and Beckett instantly feels a shiver go down their spine as soon as their lips make contact. They jerk themselves back and wipe the slobber from their lips, shriveling their face in disgust.

They never expected their first kiss to be like that, that's for sure.

To the escort's dismay, Gareth doesn't wake up, still frozen like a marble statue.

"Aw, I really thought that would work," she mutters in disappointment. "Maybe I should go get some water to splash on his face! That might wake him up! I'll be back in five!"

And with that, the escort shimmies out of the room, leaving Beckett and Gareth alone in silence.

They sigh, taking a seat on the couch beside Gareth.

"I can't believe that was my first kiss," they mutter, shaking their head back and forth in disbelief. "I always thought it would be something romantic—like in the rain or during sunset. Or maybe they'd save me like the heroes always do in action movies—I'd be falling off a building and they'd catch me and dip and we'd kiss. Would you catch me?"

The boy doesn't respond, staring up at her with unblinking and clouded eyes.

"I wonder what you're thinking about," they say, smiling weakly at their unconscious district partner. "Probably nothing. I wish I could think about nothing. I always overthink things so much. Like, why am I the only person I know who doesn't know what gender they're supposed to be? Am I broken? Why does everyone else seem to be comfortable with their true selves but me?"

This is so weird, they think as the words flow out of their mouth naturally. "Never in a million years did I think I'd be opening telling all my secrets to a stranger—one that's unconscious at that—but since I'm going to die in a week anyway, why not?"

"I wish I told my family. I guess they'll never know now. I was always scared they'd be mad at me for some reason, but now, I really don't think so. I have bigger things to be scared about. You probably don't remember, but some girl got shot today and her blood went on my dress. A dead girl's blood was on my dress! That's way scarier than telling my family some little secret I have that doesn't even matter now!"

They pause, feeling their words choke up in their throat. What if he could hear everything they were saying? What if he knew all their secrets now?

"You know what," they tell themselves, "who cares? You're brave—"

Suddenly, the boy lying beneath them shoots up and starts screaming bloody murder. Beckett squeaks in surprise, then begins to scream too, not knowing what else to do. _Was something wrong? What was happening? Was there a fire? Were rebels attacking the train? What if they were all going to die?_

So much for being brave.

Their escort and mentor rush into the room, followed by a small group of wide-eyed avoxes and peacekeepers.

"What's wrong? What happened? Is everyone okay?" their mentor asks frantically.

Gareth takes one look at the small assembly of uniformed peacekeeper then faints again.

"I—I-" Beckett stutters, their eyes wide with fear. "I think he just woke up."

The small group of them all stands around Gareth, their eyes wide with concern and curiosity. Beckett just really hopes he didn't hear anything they said a minute ago.

A few seconds later Gareth blinks open his eyes groggily as if he just woke up from a long nap.

"W—where am I?" he asks, a muddled expression plastered on his face. "W—Where is my dad? W—who are you people?"

"I—I'm Beckett," they mutter, holding a hand out to help him up.

He doesn't take it, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "Beckett?"

"Yeah," they reply softly. "I—I'm your district partner."

"District partner? W—where am I?"

"You just got reaped for the Hunger Games, Gareth!" the escort announces cheerfully, giving him a wide and excited smile.

"H—Hunger—G—Games!?"

Suddenly, his eyes flutter backward and the next thing Beckett knows the boy is down on the ground again, unconscious for the third time in five minutes.

And when he wakes up again, he just screams.

The look of sheer terror on his face told Beckett all they needed to know: Gareth just remembered everything.

* * *

 _Lennox Orseni, 15._

 _District Nine Male._

* * *

His eyes widen when he sees the television the size of his entire body.

"Oh my god, I didn't even know these existed!" he exclaims in surprise. Then, he leaps into the air and flops himself down on the couch, grabbing the remote and pressing random buttons to try to get it to turn on.

Eliora, his district partner, walks in and laughs at the spectacle that he's making of himself.

"Do you know how to use that thing?" she asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"Not at all," he chortles, continuing to press random buttons. Still, the black screen stays black, and Eliora giggles some more.

Taking a step forward, she places her hand on the arm of the couch and leans very nonchalantly against it. Then, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. With one press of her thumb, the lighter sparks to life and a golden flame appears on the top. She holds it to the butt of her cigarette and a moment later the end of the paper roll blazes with a small fire.

Meanwhile, Lennox is still trying desperately to get the television to turn on.

"Want some help?" she asks after taking a puff.

He nods his head vehemently. "I thought you'd never ask," he replies with a laugh.

Handing her the remote, she flicks it on with one press of a large red button that consequently says "on" in bold white letters. He blushes when he notices this, flushed with embarrassment. Maybe if he just took his time to read the remote, he would have known how to turn it on and not make a fool of himself in front of a potential ally.

"Thanks!" Lennox chirps cheerfully, giving her a grateful grin.

"No problem. Mind if I watch with you? I'm kind of lonely just smoking all by myself in the bathroom hiding from the escort. She caught me earlier and told me that smoking kills people, and to get away with her because she didn't want to breathe in my second-hand smoke or she'll die. But we're going to die anyway, right? What does it matter now?"

Lennox just smiles at her, patting the seat cushion next to him. He tries to ignore that last comment about them dying – it may be the reality, but he's trying to focus on what's good for while he can. The television, the wonderful food, and Eliora's company, even if she has shown herself already to be a bit cynical.

"You had another cigarette earlier?" Is all he says instead, trying to make conversation.

"Yeah, I've had three already today," she replies like it's no big deal. "It's relaxing, especially in scenarios like this. It makes it feel like the world isn't falling all around you, you know? And getting reaped for the Hunger Games certainly feels like the world is ending. You agree?"

Lennox shakes his head. "I prefer to see the positives instead. My friends tell me that even if the world was falling around me, I'd be able to find something good about the situation."

Eliora breathes the smoke in, then out slowly, pursing her pale lips as she exhales the smoke. "I wish I could do that. I'm kind of a negative person if you couldn't tell already. Do you smoke too?"

"No," Lennox replies. "We're not rich enough to be able to buy them."

Eliora breaks out into laughter. "Yeah, we're not either."

He gives her a confused glance. "Then how do you get them?"

She snickers. "I think that part is better left unsaid. Let's just say if my cousin realized, she wouldn't be happy."

It takes Lennox a minute to realize what she means, but when he does, he's not shocked. He's always able to read people well – he doesn't know what it is about him, but his first impressions are usually always right, and his of Eliora's is that she's a broken girl: she smokes, implied that she stole from her cousin, told him outright that she's a negative person, and has trouble seeing the positives in life. Yet, strangely enough, the broken people are often the ones he gravitates toward most; he's always had this burning compulsion to help them. He wants them to be whole again, and if he can do anything to help them get that way, he will. Eliora is no different. Where most people see loose ends, he sees opportunities; he isn't deterred by mystery – rather, he's captivated by it.

He watches as she stares blankly at the glowing television, smoke fuming from her mouth like a dragon. Inside, he knows he should stay away – dragons are dragons; they are ferocious, dangerous, and wild. Yet, he sees the potential in her, and if he can help her – if he can tame the dragon within her, then maybe he can gain a trusted ally.

"Hey, Eliora?" Lennox asks, turning toward her with wide eyes.

"What is it?" She questions, looking away from the television and toward him for a moment.

"I was wondering if you wanted to be my ally?"

For a moment, Eliora's face slumps, and she looks like she's going to say no. She's quiet for a minute, contemplating it over.

"Okay," she responds. "But you have to do one thing for me."

"Yeah?"

"Look me in the eyes," she commands sternly, staring right at him, "and tell me you won't stab me in the back. Promise me it."

Lennox's eyes widen – to be honest, he's a bit taken aback by her strange reaction. Her gaze is piercing as she stares right into his eyes and sends a shiver down his spine.

"I promise."

* * *

 _Braxton "Brax" Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

He never thought that he'd be the one chasing after his mentor.

"Rufus! Rufus!" he yelps like a puppy-dog, stumbling after his mentor through the crowded train carts. He feels like he's playing a game of cat and mouse; his mentor glides through a maze of furniture, with nowhere to hide but a million places to run to. Braxton follows, desperate to catch the swift mouse.

"Leave me alone kid!" His mentor growls, swinging open a door and ducking into the next train cart. "I told Beauty they need to get private rooms for mentors on these trains! You kids are so damn needy and annoying!"

Braxton dashes after him, narrowly avoiding the door that swings back and almost hits him square in the nose. He growls in frustration as his mentor runs into the bathroom and clicks the door locked.

"Come on Rufus! Why won't you give me any advice? You're a mentor for a reason – and the only chance I have at getting home to Ten!"

"Well if I'm you're only chance you're dead as a doorknob!" His mentor exclaims from the other side of the door.

"Just a few tips?" he bargains.

"No," Rufus declines in a gruff voice. "Go away."

"I'll go away if you tell me one thing I'm supposed to do!"

"Don't get killed!" his mentor howls. "Now get away from me! I have paperwork to fill out!"

"What paperwork?" Braxton asks, placing his hands on his hips. He has people to get back to at home – he never apologized to his parents for running away, and if he has anything to do with it, he'll get back to them and make amends. Once he wins the games his parents will be proud, and they'll accept him back with open arms. Or, he hopes they will.

"Your death certificate!"

Braxton rolls his eyes. Rufus might be stubborn – but he was stubborn as well, and there was no way he was leaving until he got his mentor to actually do his job and teach him.

"Well if you teach me how not to die you might not have to fill that out!" Braxton yells back, a smug smile plastered on his face.

"Teaching you will do nothing!" Rufus yells. "You'll die anyway – informed or not."

"I won't die because I have people at home who I have unfinished business with!" he screams back.

His mentor laughs wickedly on the other side of the white door. "Who? A girl? Girls aren't worth it, trust me."

"No, my parents," Braxton says, thinking of his soft-spoken mother and hardworking father who he hasn't seen in months. They didn't even visit him when he got reaped. "I need to tell them I'm sorry."

For a moment, there is silence. Braxton smirks, thinking about how he finally bested and outwitted his mentor.

Then, he hears the lock click open, and for a minute, Braxton thinks that he might have actually gotten through to his mentor.

"You want to know how I won?" Rufus asks, his dark eyes narrowed down at Braxton. Not only that – Rufus was a few inches taller than himself – Braxton was only a short 5'5", while his mentor appeared to be over six feet. He towered over him like a giant, casting a shadow on his body as he stood in front of him.

"Yeah," Braxton replies, returning his mentor's narrowed eyes. "I'd like to know."

His mentor grins a sly grin, chuckling softly to himself. "My arena was a desert, as you may know. We didn't have much water, except at the cornucopia where the strongest tributes guarded it fiercely. I hadn't had water in days, and I was thirsty that I killed my two allies in their sleep and drank their blood so I could stay alive. The next day, I won. And I don't regret it. The blood actually tasted good – it was the perfect mix of salty and sweet."

Braxton begins to feel a little faint. He places his arm against the wall and leans against it to keep himself from falling. "Whatever. We do what we have to do to win. I'll do the same if it means I get to go home to my family."

"Winning and surviving are two different things, Braxton."

He shakes his head. "They are the same to me."

"Well if you think that," his mentor mumbles, "then my advice to you is to forget your morals and everything your parents ever taught you. If you want to survive, nothing is off limits. You have to kill. Even the young ones – the ones who are innocent and have done nothing wrong – you can't hesitate, or they'll kill you first. And the ones you get close with – your allies – you'll have to kill them too. You have the betray them before they betray you. You can't think they're your friends. There are no friends in the Hunger Games. There is only you and survival. Nothing else."

"Okay," Braxton replies, nodding his head slowly. "If that's what it takes for me to get home, I'll do it."

He'll do anything to make them proud again, and if winning the games is what he has to do, there's no doubt he'll complete the task.

He tries not to think about the fact that he's never completed anything in his life before.

* * *

 _Manisha Rollins, 15._

 _District Eleven Female._

* * *

The train ticks onward like a clock – hurdling her closer and closer toward her last hour.

tick – tick – tick -

She stares blankly out the window as she sits on the floor, watching as the monotonous orchard fields of Eleven roll by. It's late fall but the workers are still tiredly picking the round fruits off the trees. Like a clock, it's a never-ending cycle – when they're done with one tree they move to the next, then the next, and a year later they're back where they started at 12 o'clock, picking the same round fruit some the same leafy tree in the same spot as they did just a year prior.

It's simple really – practically a fact of life. She's never had anyone to talk to so she's had more than enough time to observe the world around her and see how it works. From what she's seen everything acts like a clock – tick – tick - ticking forward in a circle. The seasons rotate, and so do the days of the year. They alternate what field they use every year for crops – one year it's the south and the next it's the west, then the north, then their back to the south field again. The elderly die and new babies are born to take their places, then those babies eventually die off too, only to be replaced by more young, squealing children.

The hunger games are a cycle too: every year 24 children are carted off to their doom. The rest are safe – for now. Then, when the leaves begin to fall and the air begins to crispen the reapings come around again and 24 more are taken. It's only been 12 years but Manisha is smart enough to know the cycle won't be ending any time soon.

Yet, she'll never be able to know for sure, because she doubts she'll ever live to see another year roll around again. After all that's happened to her – the bullying and the exclusion – she doubts that whatever supernatural force is out there will let her have this.

Soft footsteps echo behind her, breaking the constant rhythm of the ticks.

Manisha turns around, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees Takei standing in the doorframe. She genuinely thought that he'd leave her alone like everyone else does – but maybe she's in for another surprise today.

"Hey," she greets softly, flashing him a shy smile.

Takei smiles back. "Hey. Mind if I sit?"

She nods her head maybe a little bit too quickly. "Yeah, of course!"

Takei lowers himself onto the ground, crossing his legs over one another. He leans back on his hands and looks out the window, watching as the orange trees give way to rolling grassy plains.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" Manisha asks, trying to strike up a conversation so he won't feel awkward and leave.

He shrugs. "Maybe if it wasn't so blurry. I can't really see anything but a bunch of colors."

"Yeah, I guess," she replies quietly, "but I think the colors are what's so pretty about it."

Takei squints his eyes as if he were trying to pick out objects in the blur.

Manisha giggles as she watches him. "My mother always said boys never listen."

"What?"

She smiles. "Nevermind."

Then there's silence, and Manisha can hear the ticks of the train again, lulling her into calmness as she watches the colors dance outside.

"I don't talk to many girls at home, you know," Takei blurts out of nowhere. "This is weird for me. Is it weird for you talking to a boy?"

"N—no, I talk to boys all the time," she lies, feeling her cheeks flush red with embarrassment. She didn't want to tell him that she didn't talk to boys – or anyone, really, for that matter. _What if he thought she was weird? What if he didn't like her and decided to ignore her like everyone else did?_ This was going good so far, she couldn't mess it up like she always did. She needs him to think she's cool so he wants to be her friend.

"Oh, so your parents are more lenient then?"

Manisha shrugs, a bit confused about why that relates to anything. He did say he didn't talk to girls much though – so maybe he was just nervous. "I—I guess so. My parents don't really have a lot of rules. I really just think it's because they don't care about me. They're so focused on their jobs anyway."

"Well, I'd rather that they care too much. My dads are pretty strict about the no talking to girls rule. It sucks."

"Your dads?" Manisha asks, tilting her head to the side in confusion. "You have two dads?"

"Yeah," Takei answers like it is completely normal. "Everyone has two dads."

Manisha nods her head. "Oh yeah, of course! I have two dads too – I was just testing you!" She fakes a laugh. She just wants him to like her so bad she'll say anything. "I'm completely normal like everyone else! Everyone has two dads, duh. I know that. "

Takei furrows his eyebrows, and Manisha feels her face go pale. _Did he know she was lying? Did the 'I'm completely normal like everyone else' give it away?' Was she being too obvious that she was trying to fit in?_

"Y—you have two dads? But I thought girls always had two moms?"

Her eyes widen for a second, but she recovers quickly. "I was just joking with you!" She exclaims, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. "Of course, I have two moms! All girls have two moms, and I'm a normal girl!"

Takei begins to laugh, and she laughs awkwardly along with him.

"You're funny," he chortles. "I like funny people."

She feels her heart skip. _Did he just say he likes her? Oh my god, someone finally likes her! Maybe she'll finally have a friend! Takei was a little weird – but he was nice, and nice was what mattered. Plus, she wasn't picky – she just wants someone, anyone, to talk to. One time last year she was so lonely she painted a face on a rock and called him George. But now – but now – but now she actually had a real friend who could talk back! This was so exciting! S—_

"Uh, Manisha, a—are you alright?" Takei asks, giving her a concerned glance. "I—I don't know if that squealing voice you're making is normal."

She instantly flushes white in embarrassment. She didn't even know she was squealing she was that excited that Takei had said he liked her.

"I'm fine," Manisha replies in her best I'm chill nothing crazy is happening voice. "I'm cool like ice."

He gives her a weird look but then starts laughing again.

"Cool like ice. I like it."

The train ticks forward and Manisha wonders if finally - finally, she can be normal.

* * *

 _North Brier, 14._

 _District Twelve Female._

* * *

She never knew that there could be so much food in one place.

On tables with silk clothes lined with golden trim, piles upon piles of food sit. They're stacked higher then mountains, arrays of desserts, meats, cheeses, loaves of bread, and these strange things the escort later tells her is called "appetizers", whatever that means.

And the smell - oh, she can't even describe the smell. She's never smelled something so good in her life. It smells like freshly cut roses sprinkled with a mist of early morning dew, baked cookies, only multiplied by a thousand, and a million grilled golden chickens sizzling over a stove. And even that doesn't begin to describe the scents wafting through her nostrils.

For a minute, she just stands there in a shocked awe, wondering if all of this is even for her.

But then she can't wait any longer - the smell is just too good - and she finds her legs disobeying her brain and running toward the tables despite the fact that she told herself no just a minute ago.

Like a starved animal who hasn't eaten in days, she just begins to shove food in her mouth, not even caring what it is or if it's even for her at all. She gulps it down quickly, then goes back for more, shoving more down her throat.

As she's putting some dark brown, sweet milky cake type thing into her mouth, she hears the door open behind her.

Twisting around, she waves happily to her district partner.

"Hey, Mortimer!" North exclaims, giving him a food-filled smile. "Want to come eat with me?

He shrinks back in disgust. "Uh—no thanks."

Her smile fades slightly, and she gives him a sad look. "Oh come on! Doesn't it smell just—fantazing?

Mortimer blinks his dark eyes slowly. "Umm—I think you mean fantastic."

North shakes her head back and forth, then begins to shove more food into her mouth. "No, I mean fantazing."

"That's not a word," he replies bluntly.

"It so is!" She protests, throwing her hands animatedly up into the air. "I've been using it for my entire life! Are you calling me a liar?"

He shrugs, then turns to leave.

"Wait!" North yelps, accidentally spitting out food as she speaks. She's never been one for good manners or gracefulness, which she imagines is making a _wonderful_ first impression on her district partner. But she's never been one for first impressions anyway—her dirty, mangy street-kid look drives many away when they just merely lay their eyes on her. "Don't you want to try all this food? It's _really_ good. Like, _really really_ good. Like, _fantazing_ good."

"I'm alright," he replies, opening the door and taking a step out.

"Wait, wait, wait!" North calls after him, causing him to turn around again and roll his eyes in annoyance.

"What is it?" he growls impatiently.

"Just try this!" North exclaims, lunging toward him and shoving a piece of chocolate in his face.

Her district partner frowns, taking his hand and swatting the candy away. "No."

"Oh, come on! Just one? Please!" she persuades, blinking her puppy dog eyes at him. She does it all the time with Eben and it works—and from what she's seen so far, the two older boys aren't that different. Both are short, stubborn, and get easily annoyed at her.

Maybe that's why she feels so compelled toward her district partner: he reminds her of Eben, and maybe, despite what she tells herself, she's not ready to let him go just yet.

"Look, Bertha, thi—"

"It's North," she interrupts, then smiles at him as a signal to continue.

"Okay _North_ , I don't know what your deal is, but I have people at home to get back to. I have a little sister who needs me more than anything else. To me, this isn't some fun little food tasting game: this is real life. I need to use this time to strategize and think of who I want to ally with. I can't waste it playing around with some little girl, okay?"

North's smile fades, and she silently watches as the older boy turns and leaves the room, the door swinging closed behind him.

Yet, if he thinks that's all it's going to take to get rid of her, he's going to be in for a big wake up call.

"Wait!" she calls after him, barging through the door and into the next train cart where he's walking.

This time he doesn't respond, ignoring her entirely.

"I can be your ally, how about that?" she asks, her face perking up as she speaks. "I promise I'm loyal, and I can fight pretty good too!"

She then proceeds to punch the air, mime fighting an invisible man. Mortimer is watching her now, his brow lifted in amusement.

"And... .nope."

Then, he turns and continues to walk further away from her, faster this time.

She only sees this as a challenge though and bounds after him quicker.

"Please! Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

He shakes his head, pushing her away gently with the palm of his hand. It's a weak shove though – she doesn't go far.

"No, no, and definitely no."

"I know how to climb! I can use a knife pretty well! I can make a fire!"

After a while of trying to ignore her, he growls in frustration and turns back toward North, his arms cross over each other in an attempt to try to look stern. It's not working.

"Do you even know what no means?"

North grins widely. "No."

"Ugh!" he exasperates. "Can't you take a hint and go away? I don't want to ally with you, and if you come near me in the games, I'll kill you, okay? So stay away, because I don't think neither of us wants that to happen."

But North has lied enough in her life to detect one herself, and Mortimer's fleeting gaze gives everything away.

He won't kill her. She can tell by the way the boy talks and moves he can't even kill a fly if he wanted to.

"Meh, I'll take my chances," she giggles, "so now that we're allies, can we make nicknames for each other?"

"No," Mortimer growls angrily, "I never agreed to be allies, or to the nicknames."

Now she's the one ignoring him. "How about Morty? Do you like that one?"

All of a sudden, her district partner stops dead in his tracks. His face goes pale as snow and he looks at her with wide and stunned eyes, like she just told him that she was pregnant or something.

"What?" he croaks like he's just woken up from a nap.

"Morty," she repeats with a smile. "Can I call you that?"

He just blinks at her silently, his eyes wide as a deer in the headlights. North finds this a bit odd—it's as if she'd just pressed a switch that activated some weird alter ego within him.

Waving her hand in front of his face, she snaps him out of his trance.

"So, is Morty good?"

"No. That's stupid, n—no one calls me that. "

Another lie.

"Alright then, I'm glad we're allies, _Morty_."

* * *

 **A/N:** Another chapter in the books! And I'm finally off of school for the summer, which means a ton of writing! Yay!

Like any of the alliances that are forming? Tell me what you think of the train rides, and maybe who you'd like to see next time and what alliances you'd like to see form! And next chapter will be shorter - I promise - as I already wrote it. The 7k chapters are done until training most likely :)

I still have a poll up on my profile, vote if you want, ignore it if you want.

it's finally summer (for me!),

paper :)


	18. Parade Prep: Stunning

_Parade Preparations: Stunning_

* * *

 _Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Ten Female._

* * *

She's reading in the library train car when the train comes to a halt.

"Marguerite, we're here sweetie!" The escort exclaims, rushing into the room with a big smile on her face.

Marguerite huffs in annoyance, angry that the escort interrupted her story. She was just getting to the good part too. The princess was about to betray the prince so she could be next in line to the throne. With a sigh, she finishes up the last sentence that she was reading. Then, she closes the book and instead of placing it back on the shelf where she found it, she slides it under her skirt. The escort, fortunately, doesn't see, lost in her own bubbly fantasy world where everything is just peachy.

"Aren't you excited to see the Capitol for the first time?" The bright-faced woman asks as they walk through the train toward the exit.

"No," Marguerite replies bluntly, not even sugarcoating her words a little bit. "I want to go home."

"Aw!" The escort croons. "I bet you'll get home sweetheart. Do you have parents you want to see again?"

Marguerite frowns, looking up at the woman with an unamused gaze. "My parents are deceased."

The woman sniffles and dabs her eyes as if she were getting teary. Marguerite wants to gag. This woman is so fake it's making her sick.

"That's so sad," the escort laments, placing a hand on Marguerite's shoulder as if to comfort her. Marguerite pulls away the moment the woman touches her, not wanting her sympathy. It's not real, anyway.

"It's not despairing," she snarls. "It's a simple fact of life."

The escort seems to ignore her apparent anger and laughs instead. "Where does a little girl like you learn all these big girl words? Despairing is a word I've never heard a sweet little girl like you use!"

"I read," is all Marguerite says, worried that if she says anything more she'll erupt in anger and piss off the escort. She hates the fact that she calls her a sweet little girl. She may be little, but she's certainly not sweet. The escort must be blind to not see that.

"Oh, that's delightful! I didn't know they had books out in the impoverished areas of Panem! Our mission programs must be doing a great job then!"

This time Marguerite doesn't respond, fuming silently. By now they've reached the front door of the train where Braxton and Rufus were waiting for them. Outside, Marguerite can hear people cheering loudly.

"Are we ready?" The escort questions, blinking her eyes sweetly at the three of them.

No one responds, and she laughs to fill the empty silence.

"Alright, let's go then!"

The door swings open to reveal a crowd of thousands, some waiving colorful signs, others screaming like they're seeing their favorite celebrity. Braxton steps out of the train first, followed by Rufus, then by the escort.

Marguerite steps out last, her eyes widening in awe when she sees the glittering buildings towering above the people, shining like gems in the sunlight. They stretch for what seems like miles until the touch the white fluffy clouds in the sky, disappearing behind them. She's never seen anything like it.

It was absolutely stunning.

A few feet away there is a fancy black car parked with a golden ten carved into its side. Marguerite only looks at it for a second though, then her eyes were drawn back up to the buildings that looked like they belonged in a fantasy novel.

"Alright, in in you two!"

"Are these new?" Braxton asks as he steps into the car.

"Yeah," their mentor replies. "They implemented them last year after some harassment of tributes on the walk to the training center."

Braxton nods then gets in the car. Marguerite ducks in after him, and then a moment later they're off, speeding toward the training center, the adoring crowd cheering as they pass.

Marguerite doesn't even notice though, too captivated by the allure of the buildings to care about the people below them. And then, after a few minutes, she sees the training center, the most beautiful building of all.

It stands almost smack dab in the center of the Capitol, an all-glass building that seems to glow like the sun when the light hits it. It's a bit taller than the others but that only makes it stand out more. City circle sits in front of it and other important Panemian buildings line the street, such as the president's mansion and city hall.

She's almost fooled. She wants to believe in the magic of the Capitol so bad, but she knows that just like it's people everything here is about appearances, and under the surface, everything isn't what it seems. The training center may be beautiful, but it's used for destruction; it's used to make children into killing machines.

These people aren't friendly despite them cheering as if Marguerite and Braxton were celebrities. They killed her parents, and they want to kill her too. She can't be fooled by the beauty because behind it, there is bloodlust. The Capitol may be beautiful but it is equally just as dangerous; if she makes one wrong move, she might seal her fate. She has to be careful here. She can't trust anyone, not her mentor, district partner, escort, or other competitors.

She can only trust herself.

* * *

 _Luna Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Female._

* * *

If someone told her this morning she'd be standing naked in front of four strangers two-thousand miles away from her home, she'd tell them they were crazy.

But here she is, shaking uncomfortably from all the attention, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. It takes everything in her not to run and hide in a corner. Her lead stylist, Bianca, scans her body with narrowed eyes, up and down, up and down.

"C—can I go put some clothes on?" Luna squeaks almost silently.

"What was that?" Othello, one of the members of her prep team asks.

"A—are you guys almost done?" she asks a little louder, trying to project her soft and low voice.

Bianca nods her head. "Just one more minute, I need some more time to see what I have to work with."

"You're doing great, Luna," another one of her prep team members, Calvina, consoles with a bright smile.

"Yeah," Othello adds. "You're very modest. It's a good quality."

She blushes redder and looks around anxiously. "Uh - thanks?" Finally, after what seems like hours, Bianca claps her hands and her prep team rushes toward her and guides her toward a small shower chamber in one of the corners of the room.

"This might hurt a little," Calvina says, pressing a button on the side of the shower. "Just clench your teeth and it will be over before you know it."

Suddenly, about a dozen spurts of water open and heavy jets of water fly in her direction, hitting her exposed body. She squeaks in surprise and clenches her teeth just as Calvina told her to do, closing her eyes tight.

The water feels sharp as it hits her, like she's being poked by a million little pins. She begins to count to ten in her head– one, two, three – it's a tactic she's been using for years when she just wants something to be over because she infers that you can do anything for ten seconds. After ten seconds are over, she counts to another ten, then another ten, and then it's over; the jets stop and the water recedes, and she opens her eyes again, rubbing the water from them.

"Excellent!" Othello explains, then opens the door and guides her over to a small bed that looks like a dentist's chair. She instructs her to lay down, and she does as he says. Then, she slides on a sheer white gown over her head. A second later, a bright light turns on over her head and her prep team is buzzing over like busy bees, plucking stray hairs from her eyebrows and scrubbing her legs with bars of rough soap.

It hurts, but she tries not to think about it. She counts to ten in her head and thinks back to a time where she was hanging out with her friends, flying up and down on an old swing set in an abandoned playground. She was happy then, and maybe if she thinks hard enough about it, she'll be happy now.

After yanking her hair up into a half-up, half-down updo and lathering her face with coats of makeup, her prep team is finally finished and hands her off to her stylist, who squeaks in delight when she sees her.

"Oh darling, you look like a model!"

"I—I do?" Luna stutters, blinking her eyes in confusion. No one has ever told her she looks like that. She's always just been average, never beautiful, never even pretty.

"Yes! Just look at those legs! You're tall, you're skinny, you're just beautiful! I think the outfit I have planned will fit your shape just perfectly!"

Luna blushes bashfully again as Bianca leads her into another room, this one with racks upon racks of threads and intricate cloths with colorful designs. On the table sits a long, strapless dress with a pretty picture stitched onto it.

"Oh, don't just stand there! Try it on!" Bianca exclaims, smiling at her brightly. Luna nods her head mutely and slips out of her gown, then takes the dress and shimmies into it. It fits her perfectly.

"Ah! The gold stars just compliment your skin tone so well! I did such a fabulous job!"

Luna turns, and when she sees herself in the mirror, she doesn't even recognize the girl on the other side. Her eyes widen in shock, and her jaw drops.

"A—am I dreaming?" she blurts out, the words coming out of her mouth before she can really think about what she's saying.

"No," Bianca replies, placing her hand on Luna's shoulder. "That's you."

She's stunning. Half her hair is twisted up into a high bun, small curls rolling down to frame her face. The rest of her hair is pulled back and curled into small ringlet, falling to about midback. Her tanned skin seems to glow – maybe that shower really did wonders. And the dress – oh the dress – it was just gorgeous. Small golden stars dotted a dark blue sky, and underneath a town peacefully.

"It's an old painting from pre-Panem," her stylist says, seeming to read her mind. "A lot of us recognize it here because it's in an art museum downtown. It's called Starry Night."

Luna can't help but smile.

"Want to take it for a spin?"

She nods her head mutely, then begins to twirl around slowly. She giggles as the dress twirls with her, round and round as she spins. She feels like a princess.

"Is Solomon ready?" she asks after spinning around a few time, stopping because she was beginning to get dizzy.

"He should be," Bianca replies, and she heads over to the door that connects their two rooms. A moment later Solomon steps through the door, and both their eyes go wide when they see each other.

"W—wow," they both say in unison.

"You look amazing," Luna says, smiling warmly at her brother. He was wearing a suit with the same painting designed onto it, and he looked devilishly handsome. They slicked back his hair and got rid of must his acne, and in the boxy suit, he looked less frail and thin then he usually did.

"You do too," Solomon replied, returning her smile for a rare occasion.

They stare at each other in silence for a minute, then Sol speaks softly, his smile fading.

"I—I think I'm ready to talk about today," he mutters, taking a step forward. "I'm sorry about what happened."

Luna shakes her head. "No, it's my fault. I should have known."

"You couldn't have known," Solomon replies. "I never told you I was suicidal. I never reached out to anyone about it. Maybe I should have. But now—now I want to help get you out. That's my mission. I'll die if that means you get to live."

"No. Both of us will live. We can do it, we can find a way," she responds optimistically. "I'm sure they'll make an exception if we are in the final two. They might be evil, but I don't think they're evil enough to watch two siblings fight to the death, right?"

Solomon doesn't respond.

"We can do it, Sol, I believe in us."

He still doesn't speak, his eyes fixated at a random spot on the ground.

Then, after a minute, he speaks softly again.

"Okay. I think I'm going to go off morphing too. Or - uh - try to. It's going to be hard, I know, but if these might be the last few days I have left on earth, I want to actually be able to experience it - the real thing - not some drug-induced version of it."

"Oh Sol, I'm so proud of you!" Luna exclaims, her smile spreading even wider. "I'll help you every step of the way. I know we can do it together, I just know we can."

They hug, and for a minute, Luna feels like everything might end up alright.

* * *

 _Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Male._

* * *

He's dressed up as a rock.

 _A fucking rock._

His anger is apparent as he heads out to the chariots; his nostrils fume with irritation, and his fists are clenched in rage. Hana chattering loudly behind him, not seeming to be fazed by the fact that she looks like she's wearing a bad Halloween costume.

 _How is he supposed to make a good impression on the other careers if he looks like he's five?_

"Aren't these costumes just great?" Hana giggles, her usual annoying and bubbly self. "I mean – this wasn't my first choice of costume, I think I would have liked being a gladiator better, but at least they gave us clothes!"

She looks over to the tributes from Twelve who are standing by their chariot, the only thing covering their bare bodies black paint.

Pilate growls. "I'd rather be naked than a fat rock. I have a good body so it wouldn't be that bad. I have a six pack, you know. I'm really ripped. Like – _really_ ripped."

Hana turns to him, looking at him directly in the eyes. "I'm gay."

"I wasn't flirting," he snarls, "I'm gay too, remember?"

"Oh right!" Hana exclaims, giving him a bashful smile. "I almost forgot you're Draco's boyfriend!"

Pilate huffs in annoyance, deciding not to respond. He knows Hana understands what she's doing – she knows everything that happened in every Hunger Games ever off the top of her head for pete's sake– she has an excellent memory. And she certainly didn't forget that last time she said he was Draco's boyfriend, he erupted at her like a volcano. She's probably just doing it to annoy him because they didn't get off on the best foot.

He doesn't care though. He's not here to make friends, he's here to win. As long as he can use Hana as his little puppet she can call him Draco's boyfriend however many times she wants. She may think she's smart - but he's smarter. She'll fall right into his hands if he plays his cards right.

Finally, they reach their chariot. Many other tributes are introducing themselves, straying from their chariots to say hello to their competitors. Notably, he sees the two tributes from Eleven talking to the girl from Six, while the boy from Three is introducing himself to the boy from Ten. Pilate sees the two tributes from One are already by their's, chatting amongst each other.

"We should go talk to them," Hana suggests, turning toward Pilate. "We need to make sure the career pack is actually happening this year."

For once, he actually agrees with his district partner.

"Alright, sounds good. But let me do the talking, alright?"

Hana rolls her eyes and jumps off the chariot. "I can talk fine myself, thank you very much."

Pilate grunts in annoyance. And the agreeing ended fast. He follows her over anyway, not wanting to miss out on this opportunity to meet his potential allies and try to assert his dominance as the potential leader.

"Hi, guys!" Hana exclaims, waving to them as she approaches. "I like your costumes!"

"Hey," the District One boy replies, waving his golden scepter at the two of them. This year, the District One tributes were dressed up as royalty – king and queen. "Yours's are – well, they're—they're—

"Big?" Hana asks with a grin. "Intresting?"

He laughs. "Intresting was exactly the word I was looking for! You're Hana, right?"

She nods her head, then turns back to Pilate. "Yep. And this is my district partner, Pilate."

He waves his hand in greeting, not bothering to smile at the two of them.

"If you can't tell, he's a bit grumpy," Hana chortles, and the three of them laugh. Pilate narrows his eyes at her angrily, folding his arms over his chest. He's not amused.

"I prefer serious," Pilate responds bitterly, blinking blankly at the three of them. "These are the Hunger Games after all. I don't think the fact that were going to be killing people in four days is a laughing matter."

"Well I'm Valentine," the darker skinned girl replies, ignoring Pilate. She holds her hand out so that Hana and he can shake it. "Feel free to call me Val though, I know Valentine is a bit of a mouthful."

Hana shakes her hand; Pilate doesn't. He keeps his arms folded over her chest, and after a minute of holding her hand out, she pulls it back awkwardly and gives him a bashful smile.

"And I'm King Clay," the boy beamed, fixing the golden crown on his head. Hana and Val laugh, and Hana mock curtsies, which them laugh louder. Pilate is still not amused.

"Now that we're done with the introductions, can we get to it?" Pilate asked, unfolding his arms. "Is the career pack happening this year?"

Clay nodded quickly – perhaps a bit too quickly – which made Pilate slightly suspicious. _Did he have something to hide? Was he actually trained?_

"I'd like it to," Val voices.

"Me too," Hana adds.

"Alright then, it's settled!" Pilate exclaims. "The Four tributes can join us tomorrow if they want, but I think we should be core group since traditionally it's been One and Two. I also think we should pick a leader – as the best career packs have generally had strong leaders to make decisions for the whole group so there is no arguing."

"Well, not necesaril—"

He cuts Hana off, not giving her a chance to finish. What he said might not be true, but he needs people to think it is. He's going to be the leader whether _she_ likes it or not – being the leader means you're the strongest in the alliance, and he certainly is. He isn't going to let anyone push him around. He's the alpha here.

"I was thinking I could be the leader," Pilate suggests, giving everyone a fake smile. "I'm obviously the strongest physically, as I'm the biggest guy here and I've been training for years. I'm a good strategist and I can think like the other tributes, so it'll be easier to track them down."

Val and Clay nod, but Hana doesn't look happy.

"No challengers, alright, that means I—"

"Well I was thinking I could be the leader," Hana suggests, giving him a sly grin. "Pilate might be the strongest, but I don't know if he's the smartest. I've watched every Hunger Games ever and I've analyzed every minute of each game. I know the Games like I know the back of my hand. I know when the careers have failed and when they've won, and under my leadership, I can guarantee one of us will win."

"I vote Hana," Val replies, and Pilate's eyes practically pop out of his head. "That was a pretty convincing speech."

 _Oh no, this bitch was in no way ruining his perfect plans to take the pack over. No f-ing way._

Before Clay has a chance to vote, Pilate speaks again. "If I'm not the leader I don't really know I want to be in the careers," he blurts. "It's just I've always dreamed of being the leader of an alliance, and I would be a bit of a letdown if I wasn't one. So If Hana's the leader, I think I'm going to have to leave. Best of luck to you guys, though!"

Now it's Val's eyes that go wide.

Pilate begins to walk away slowly, a sly smile creeping onto his face.

"Actually, I vote Pilate," she calls after him, "Sorry Hana, but we do need him in the alliance."

She nods her head in understanding.

"I agree," Clay adds. "We need to stay strong as careers."

"Yeah, okay Pilate, I guess you can be our leader. We need you in the alliance more than I need to be it."

Pilate grins. Manipulating these fools was almost too easy. He practically had this victory in the bag. That would show Draco. Oh boy, it would show him big time.

* * *

 **A/N:** _It seems everyone else is updating today, so I decided to stick with the trend and update Blackened as well! And with this chapter, we're finally in the Capitol! Training is my favorite part of the games, so I'm excited to almost be there._

 _As usual, I hope you liked the chapter, and it's shorter this time, as promised. I have been appreciating all your reviews so far and keep them coming! We're nearing the games, and I plan to definitely get there before I go off on vacation in August! So the pace will be getting faster; expect two updates a week from now, one on the weekend and one during the week. I need to get this story going before I start my junior year, because hell, I already know that's going to be a hectic mess._

 _Tell me what you think, and do you think Pilate's plan of taking over the career pack is going to keep working? Do you think Sol is going to be able to go off morphling? And more importantly, what alliances would you like/expect to see?_

 _Chariots are next time, and I promise, they'll be more detailed then last time!_

 _paper :)_


	19. Chariots: Perfect Order

_Chariots: Perfect Order_

* * *

 _Sicarius Valens, Head Gamemaker._

* * *

He stands on the presidential balcony next to President Heron, watching the crowd scream as the national anthem of Panem begins to play.

"I assume everything is in order?" President Heron questions, her cold gaze seeming to pierce through his skull as she talks.

Sicarius nods his head, trying to ignore the shiver that's running down his spine. He narrows his eyes to the small tunnel where the chariots are about to come out of in one moment, then turns back to the President standing on his right.

"Perfect order, Madam President," he replies with a smile. "Just the way you like it."

She chuckles at the joke, placing her bony hands on the guardrail of the balcony. However, her laugh isn't gleeful and joyous like most others' – rather, it's as cold and rigid as the rest of her - forced almost, like she's acting. Wrapping her bony fingers around the guardrail of the balcony, she turns toward him.

"You know me too well, Sicarius," she chimes and laughs again. This time, Sicarius laughs along with her, scared of what would happen if he didn't. Rumors have spread like wildfire around the gamemaking circle that some of her advisors have been "fired" for even the smallest things – liking the color pink, for instance.

"I hope the outfits are to your liking this year. I hired the best stylist's money could buy and kept the favorites from last year's games."

President Heron laughs coldly again. "I'm hard to please, Sicarius. I'm surprised you haven't realized this yet."

He feels words choke up in his throat. Then, thankfully – the parade music begins to play. He signs in relief. A moment later the District One chariot appears from the tunnel guided by a pair of white stallions. Sicarius looks up at the jumbo screen to get a better view of their outfits.

Valentine wears a beautiful crimson colored ballgown that is laced with an elegant golden design on the chest and going down the skirt. The skirt poofs out at the bottom, making the dress look very old-fashioned – as if she were an elegant queen from medieval times. Her chocolate brown hair is tied up in a tight bun and a golden tiara adorns the top of her head, glittering in the flashing lights of the adoring Capitolites' cameras. Large diamond earrings hang from her ears and a similar matching diamond pendant sits on her neck. She waves to the crowd as if she were a real-life queen, which only makes them go wilder.

"She seems to be eating the spotlight up," President Heron remarks, raising an eyebrow. "That could be useful to know. It seems she'll do anything for attention."

"Good point," Sicarius mutters, grabbing a notepad out of his pocket and scribbling it down.

The boy – Clay – seems to be just as comfortable in the spotlight. He's dressed as a king, with a matching crimson cape and gold crown. He holds a scepter in his left hand with a little gold ball on top and smiles at the crowd, waiving at a few children in the stands as he passes. He's also rather handsome - similar to most District One tributes in the past – save for a small scar on his right cheek. Sicarius finds it odd that his stylist didn't make more of an effort to patch it up, as the District One tributes are supposed to be flawlessly beautiful and blemish free.

Next up is District Two – which – he hates to say it, is a big disappointment. He hears President Heron snort as they enter City Circle on a chariot lead by two brown horses, dressed as rocks. Big, fat, plump rocks. If he's being honest, their outfits look like a poorly done child's paper mache project. They wear grey tights and grey shirts underneath. Hana seems to be happy though, waving at the crowd just as Valentine had a moment earlier. Pilate, on the other hand, looks the opposite of happy, his arms crossed over his chest in anger. He scowls at people as he passes, his eyes blazing with anger. Sicarius feels for the boy – if he had trained his entire life to be a strong career and ended up getting dressed as a rock and paraded in front of the whole country, he'd feel humiliated too.

For the first time in a long time, people boo at the District Two tributes as the pass, few roses flying their way.

After that atrocity comes District Three, robots this year's choice for costumes. Freyja's skin is painted silver, and her long hair is slicked back and died the same exact color. On her legs she wears silver knee-high boots and sports a hoop-skirt made of some shiny material that looks like tin. Her eyelashes are long and glittery, and some kind of funky hat that looks like an old-fashioned radio receiver sits on her head. Her tall and lithe frame suits her well for this outfit, and she looks very robotic and stiff, matching the theme perfectly.

Similarly, Sky's entire body and hair are painted silver. He wears a full body metallic suit that's rather baggy on his thin frame and doesn't quite fit him right. On the front of the suit is a series of buttons, and on his head is a similar hat to Freyja's, this one having a strange resemblance to a satellite dish. It spins around atop his head in circles, beeping.

Sicarius claps. After Two's outfits, District Three's looked amazing in comparison.

District Four is always a crowd favorite, and this year is no exception. Sicarius smiles upon seeing their outfits. Both of them look beautiful, dressed as some sort of sea god and goddess. Coral looks beautiful; her skin and dark hair covered with a shiny blue glitter. She wears a long dress that stretches down to the floor of the chariot and has a train that flies off the back of it, billowing as the horses gallop forward. It's a deep blue hue and when Coral moves it seems to shimmer like water, dancing in the light. Archie is a sea god—his chest and abs exposed. Which, thankfully, he has. On his lower half, he wears a blue toga that shimmers just like Coral's dress does, and his body is also covered with a shiny blue glitter. His spiky red hair contrasts the blue perfectly, and he grins devilishly. In his left hand he clutches a golden trident, similar to one an ancient Greek god would have held. Many of the women in the crowd cheer louder as his chariot rolls by, but instead of winking at them, he winks at a few handsome men in the stands. They look rather amused.

A moment after, the horses of District five come galloping into view. Behind the horses are the siblings – Sicarius didn't even plan for both them to be in the games together, but oh, what a treat it would be to tear them apart and test how far their loyalties really went! Yet for now, they both hold hands, still very close. They smile bashfully at the crowd. Luna and Solomon are wearing a match dress and tuxedo that has one of the most famous painting in history, Starry Night, stitched onto it. Sicarius likes the play their stylists did on the "light" aspect of District Five. They both look very nice, and Sicarius makes a mental note to get their stylists back for next year's names.

Then it's District Six's turn, and both tributes sport an outfit made of different kinds of metals. Sicarius is slightly confused for a second, trying to figure out how this relates to the transportation aspect of District Six, but then quickly realizes they're dressed in metals because it's the materials that they use to make the cars, trains, airplanes, bikes, and other things. Surprisingly, the hodgepodge of metals looks fairly good, and the crowd seems to like it, cheering as Winnifred and Tyrell pass. Another thing that surprises and intrigues Sicarius is that the boy is without his shades, and for the first time, he can see his eyes. They dart around curiously, taking in as much of his surroundings as possible.

"He's smart," President Heron mutters again, seeming to read his thoughts for already the second time today. "Maybe he's not a lost cause just because he's deaf."

"I never said he was," Sicarius replies with a gulp.

"It doesn't matter what you said. It's what you thought."

He feels another nervous shiver run down his spine and turns back to the City Circle, watching as the District Seven tributes stroll into sight. Both are dressed as lumberjacks, holding mock axes in their hands. Terra's long black hair is straightened and twisted into two braids, and he's surprised – she actually looks rather pretty. All her acne is gone and her skin looks much clearer than before. She wears a red checkered flannel and dark jeans with tall brown boots. Bruno laughs next to her as the chariot flies forward, swinging his ax around as if he were cutting down a tree. Terra looks a bit annoyed at the childish show her district partner is putting on. From what Sicarius can see from his ax miming, the boy had never cut down any tree or worked in the forests for a single day in his life. And like Terra, he wears a red flannel, with jeans and hardy boots. However, his hair is spiked up with gel and made to look messy, as if he'd just been working a long day in the lumber yards.

Typical, but nice. They receive a few roses – he guesses partially because of Bruno's poor yet amusing acting skills.

After that is District Eight. Their outfits would have been considered creative and imaginative – that is, if Beckett and Gareth were willing to play along. Both look absolutely terrified as they stand on the chariot. Beckett's eyes are wide with terror as she shakes in place, her hands feverishly gripping the side of the chariot as if she were going to fall off. She's dressed in a dark black and purple leather cyberpunk dress which is probably supposed to make her look dark and brooding, but it really doesn't work as she looks like a scared little deer in the headlights in front of the crowd. On her head sits dark goggles and her hair is slicked back and dyed with purple streaks. Dark makeup is painted onto her face – thick eyeliner, deep purple eyeshadow and black lipstick.

The District Eight stylists tried to do a similar getup with Gareth, and again, it failed miserably. He wears a black leather vest and skinny purple leather pants. A dark chain choker wraps around his neck and he has about a dozen earrings clipped onto his nose and ear. Like Beckett, he shakes in terror and is frozen in shock, staring down at his feet in embarrassment. His thick makeup is running a little from him crying so much.

They were meant to look intimidating and scary, but really, they just look sad.

President Heron looks at her nails boredly as District Nine appears from out of the tunnel.

Unlike District Eight, Lennox and Eliora's stylists went for something cute and fun. Eliora is dressed as a black crow, while Lennox is a scarecrow. It's an unlikely pairing but Sicarius enjoys the dynamic – Eliora seems more serious and sullen, while Lennox smiles so wide he looks like he just won the lottery. The girl wears a feathery mask with a beak on her face and feathers are glued onto her arms. On her body is a dark dress with matching feathers, the bottom of it reaching just above her knee. Her auburn hair is tied back in a high ponytail, away from her face.

Beside her, Lennox's cheeks are painted a rosy red, while his hair is hidden behind a farmer's hat. Instead, little strings of hay stick of from the hat where his hair would normally be. He wears jean overalls and a checkered shirt, and little strings of hay also stick out near his wrists and ankles. He beams at the crowd, soaking up all the attention. He seems to bask in it, unlike Eliora, who slinks back behind him, trying to almost hide in his shadow.

District Ten has a similar fun outfit. Marguerite and Braxton are dressed in matching cow suits. They both don't seem too happy – Marguerite scowls as she passes older women who awh at her because she looks cute. That was the point of the outfit though – she's twelve, short, and the stylists probably wanted to doll her up to make her seem more appealing to potential sponsors. However, she doesn't seem to appreciate the help, angrily wiping the blush from her cheeks and onto her white sleeves. Braxton stands with his arms over his chest, looking down at the floor in embarrassment. He looks like he probably would have preferred a butcher outfit or just something that didn't make himself seem like a fool. Because when you're wearing a cow suit – it's hard to seem strong and intimidating, and Sicarius guesses that's what the boy was trying to go for.

Second to last is District Eleven, both Manisha and Takei dressed as flower children from an era long before Panem. However, the loose and carefree style has come back into fashion recently, and the Capitolites cheer loudly as their chariot passes. Manisha wears a long, loose-fitting white dress with lace trim adorning the sleeves. Her brown poofy hair hasn't been touched, except for a dozen or so sunflowers that have been weaved in. On her wrists are numerous bangles and hanging from her neck is a long chain necklace with a small silver peace sign on the end. She looks uncomfortable in the spotlight, her eyes wide as she looks into the cameras.

Takei looks slightly more comfortable, but not much more so. His eyes dart around the city circle rapidly, not knowing what to focus on. His large hair hasn't seemed to be touched either, the stylists keeping its natural afro shape. On his forehead, he wears a flowery bandana and a matching flowery vest sits on top of his white shirt and wide pants.

As always, District Twelve finishes off the parade on a low note. Though not the usual coal, they wear nothing but black paint, and the boy looks absolutely petrified as he's paraded around the square. The girl, North, seems to feel more comfortable in her own skin, doing different poses for the crowd. Sicarius finds this slightly odd – she's fourteen after all, and he knows most fourteen-year-old girls wouldn't be comfortable in a bikini, let alone nothing.

President Heron brings herself to her feet, turning toward him before making her way up to the podium.

"I wasn't pleased," she declares sharply.

Sicarius blinks, his face expressionless. Underneath, fear swirls. He wonders if like a wolf, the president can smell fear. She probably can.

"You said you were had to impress," he rebukes.

She laughs coldly. "Sicarius, hard and impossible aren't synonymous. Don't you know this?"

Then she turns abruptly and heads to the microphone, pulling a sole grey hair from her head with one swift pluck.

And Sicarius used to think he was scary.

* * *

 **A/N:** A bit of a shorter chapter - this was supposed to be part of the last one, but I broke it up because I thought it would have been a bit long for the content in it. But I hope you liked everyone's costumes, I took most of them from what you guys suggested in the form and made my own for two or three of them. Who's did you like the best? The least?

Also, disclaimer, if it's not Beckett's POV, I'll be talking about them in the her/she form, as it's how other people perceive them.

And we're so close to 200 hundred reviews, so yay! I'm super excited to reach that mark :)

See you all for the first day of training!

paper :)


	20. Training Day I: Testing the Waters

_Training Day I: Testing the Waters_

* * *

 _Tyrell Taiko, 15._

 _District Six Male._

* * *

He wonders if in the Capitol, birds chirp too.

When he wakes up it's quiet – as always – bright rays of light streaming in from behind the grey curtains. He can feel the vibrations from the alarm beside his bed – a rapid ping – ping – pinging of the alarm clock hitting the nightstand beside him. He knows this is the alarm clock and not another object because of the constant, fast pattern it makes as it rings. The only other object that makes the same pattern vibrations is a fire alarm, but the chance of it being that was very low.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he quickly notices that there is a new object in the room: his training suit. An avox or one of his mentors probably placed it in here last night when he was sleeping. It's folded very nicely, the same way his mother folds his own clothes at home. He rips the covers off his body and makes his way over to the training suit sitting idly on the dresser, slipping his nightshirt off over his head. Then, he steps into the training suit and notices it fits his body perfectly, wrapping around his fair-hued skin like a glove.

On the shoulder, it has a small six embroidered into the light and durable fabric. He smiles, then pretends to punch an imaginary punching bag in the air in front of him. He laughs, the smooth and long vibrations exiting his mouth.

If he thinks hard enough, he can still remember what laughter sounds like – light, airy, bubbly, smooth - like liquid gold. It was one of the best sounds in the world, and he'd give almost anything to hear it again for real.

After dressing, he combs his short black hair back, puts on his shades, and exits the room. Waiting in the kitchen for him is Raleigh, shoveling fluffy eggs into his mouth. Winnifred and Buick are still absent. He's glad. He's not too sure his district partner likes him too much. Last night, before the chariot rides, most people were talking with their district partners. However, she left him to go talk to the District Eleven boy, who from what he could pick up from his body language, seemed to have some kind of romantic attraction to her. From what he could see, Winnifred didn't feel the same way. She was just looking for someone to talk to who could actually understand what she was saying and talk back.

He may be deaf, but he's certainly not blind, and it doesn't take a genius to see that Winnifred did not want to be Tyrell's ally.

However, he doesn't blame her. He has an obvious disadvantage – his hearing, or lack thereof – and if she doesn't want to be associated with him, that was fine. He's a bit hurt, but he understands. Strategically, it's the right move.

But he knew she wasn't thinking any strategy because from what he picked up from the conversation yesterday, she doesn't think about anything before she does it.

So maybe it was a little personal. No one wants to be friends with the deaf boy, after all. He's used to it by now.

He says hello to Raleigh briefly, then eats his eggs in silence. Raleigh doesn't seem to want to talk much, swirling his food around aimlessly on his plate. He looks worried from what Tyrell's observations. He doesn't know if it's about him or Winnifred though.

After eating breakfast, it's time to go down to the Training Center. Winnifred runs out of her room just as Tyrell, Raleigh, and Buick are about to get into the elevator, her hair uncombed and her training suit unzipped. He can see Buick roll his eyes as she shoves an entire helping of eggs down her throat in one big gulp and then hurries into the elevator after them, her suit still unzipped. She looks extremely unorganized.

Tyrell feels the elevator drop suddenly, and he knows they're going down. About a minute later it stops, and the small red screen in the corner indicating what floor they are on blinks TC, or Training Center. The doors pull apart to reveal a large room already filled with most of the tributes who mull amongst themselves, talking in small groups.

Buick nudges them out of the elevator. Winnifred steps out and walks towards the clump of tributes, disappearing into all the grey and black uniforms and leaving Tyrell all alone. He gulps, then takes a step forward, making his way toward the center of the room.

Most of the tributes ignore him as he passes, but he can feel the Careers' hot gazes land on him as he walks by their small group clumped together near the center of the floor. They must have been talking about him. A shiver rolls down his spine as he sees the biggest one – the District Two boy – smile at him slyly, like a fox, almost. Then, all of a sudden, the boy sticks his foot out in an attempt to trip Tyrell.

Yet, he's developed heightened reflexes over the years to compensate for his lack of hearing and sees it just in time to jump out of the way. However, he doesn't. While Tyrell infers the boy might be trying to make a spectacle of him and show his allies that he was the strongest one, that's exactly what Tyrell wants. He wants people to think that he's weaker than he is so they underestimate him and if he "trips", it only helps his case and strengthens his strategy. That's what he "tripped" during the reapings when he was making his way up to the stage. It was all for show. For people to underestimate him.

He lets out a forced, frightened yelp and falls flat on his face. He can feel the vibration of the other tributes footsteps as they all turn toward him, twenty-three other pairs of eyes resting on his small body.

Just what he wanted.

Above him, he recognizes the same smooth and long vibrations he heard earlier today, those that indicate laughter. However, this time it's a bit sharper, and he knows without looking that the boy who tripped him is snickering.

 _What would the big strong career think he if knew the little helpless deaf boy who everyone thought would be first to die just had him play right into his hands?_

He probably wouldn't feel so big and strong anymore.

* * *

 _Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District One Female._

* * *

"What the hell Pilate?" she snaps, giving the tall boy her angriest glare. "He's deaf! You can't just trip a disabled boy and think that it's alright!"

Pilate rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, I just did. And why do you even care, miss-District-One-pretty-little-party-girl? Isn't your type usually the same? Doing bad things just to get attention?"

"Shut the hell up Pilate," her district partner growls defensively, giving Pilate a glare that could cut glass, "she isn't like that at all."

"You shouldn't be talking either, Mr. Good Looks," Pilate growls, then pushes him aside and glares right at her. "You're one in the same. Both attention hogs."

Valentine feels her nostrils flare, and it takes everything in her not to kick Pilate right smack in the balls. They were probably small, too. On the outside, she might look like the stereotypical attention-obsessed, vain District One girl, but she was anything but. She might crave attention – but it wasn't from her peers, it was from her parents. Pilate had no idea what it was like to have parents who practically forgot their child existed. And she partied for their attention too, not just to drink and have fun. However, she never has done anything mean and vindictive for attention. She considers herself a social Robinhood – she knows what it's like to be ignored, forgotten and abandoned, and she stands up for those who can't speak up for themselves. She doesn't just do it for her: she does it for everyone. The deaf boy included.

Extending an arm downward, she helps the deaf boy to his feet.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, despite the fact she knows he can't even hear it.

"Don't apologize for me," Pilate hisses. "I can speak for myself, thank you very much."

"And I can too. So don't label me and Clay when you don't even know us, alright?"

"Hey, guys!" Coral exclaims, stepping into between them and trying to break the obvious tension. "How about we go train now? There's so much to do! How about we start with the spears? Or if you don't like that, we can do to the swords! Or the—"

Pilate cuts her off abruptly. "Shut up."

"What did you just say to her?" Hana inquires, narrowing her eyes at Pilate.

"I told her to shut – her – mouth. You elected me as the leader, and I'm only doing my job of giving orders. You should do your jobs as followers and listen to me."

Valentine raises an eyebrow. They may have elected him as the leader – but it was more of a rigged election than anything else.

"Don't tell me to shut up," Coral spits back, clenching her fists into small balls of pent-up anger. "And they elected you as the leader, I never did."

Now it's Archie who steps in and tries to intervene. "Want to know a funny joke?"

"No," Pilate growls.

Archie tells it anyway.

"What did the carp say to his crush?"

"To shut up."

"No, he told him to not play koi!" Archie exclaims, which makes only Coral and Clay laugh. The rest of the alliance just stands there in an awkward silence, some looking down at their feet, others glaring at each other. Particularly, her and Hana at Pilate.

"Do you guys want to train now?" Coral asks, blinking her eyes at the five of them.

"Fine," Valentine growls. Clay nods his head.

"Let's go to the spears station," Pilate suggests, but Valentine knows it's more of an order. The five of them follow after him, breaking off into small groups. Coral falls beside her district partner, while she naturally gravitates towards Clay and Hana.

"We should have made you the leader," Valentine mutters quietly, turning toward Hana.

"I agree," Clay adds. "You're ten times nicer, at least. Maybe a hundred. Pilate's just a bully."

Hana blushes. "Thanks."

"It's like he has a stick up his ass. I wonder what happened to him. Something bad, I'm guessing," Valentine says.

Hana nods. "I think he just broke up with his boyfriend or something. And, you know, he wasn't the chosen volunteer until like a week ago."

"Really?" Valentine asks, raising an eyebrow. "That's surprising. He looks really strong for someone who was number two."

Clay meanwhile is strangely quiet, nodding his head mutely as he listens to the two girls chat.

"We need him in the alliance though," Hana mutters. "I don't like to admit it, but he's probably the strongest of us six. Physically, at least. We need to keep him happy, even if that means letting him boss us around. I'd rather him be my friend than enemy, that's for sure."

Clay snorts. "Yeah, this is him as our ally! Imagine what he'd act like if he were our enemy!"

Valentine shakes her head, burrowing her forehead in her hands. "I don't even want to think about it."

By now, they've reached the spear station, and Pilate is already hurling them at the target, hitting the bullseye twice in his first three throws.

The trainer tries to give him a tip, but he brushes her off, telling her that he knows more than she ever will.

Valentine, Clay, and Hana snicker at his comment. From what Valentine has picked up so far, he's either really confident or really insecure and trying to mask it with an aura of cockiness. She's always been able to read people really well, but right now, she still can't tell which one it is.

"Who wants to go next?" Pilate asks after he's done showing off.

"I will!" Archie offers, stepping forward.

Pilate shakes his head, holding his arm out so Archie can't pass. Then, he narrows his eyes at Coral and smiles slightly. "No, I want the reaped girl to go first. If she wants to be one of us, she needs to prove herself."

"She may be reaped," Archie interjects, "but she's really skilled. She's been a spearfisherman all her life."

"Perfect," Pilate exclaims. "Then she should do amazing at this."

Valentine lets her gaze drift to Coral, who instantly just flushed white. All her confidence she had prior when trying to break up the tension between the two of them is gone. Valentine can tell she's nervous – if she was put in this situation, she'd be too.

"I-Is this really necessary?" Coral squeaks, her eyes wide.

Pilate raises an eyebrow. "Are you scared? Have something to hide?"

"N-no," Coral stutters, shaking her head back and forth. "I have nothing to hide."

"Then do it."

She steps forward, her hands shaking nervously. Gripping a spear tightly, she angles it toward the target. Then, a second later, she launches. The spear flies through the air, sailing feet about the target. It hits the wall, then falls to the floor with a clatter.

"No," Pilate growls. "You're out."

"What?" Coral squeaks, her eyes going even wider. "But that was only my first shot! You didn't even let me warm up! I was nervous!"

"You only get one shot when you're killing a tribute," Pilate replies coldly.

"Dude, come on," Archie pleads, "just give her another shot."

"I don't give second shots."

Valentine stands back, wanting to speak up. Everything inside her tells her she needs to. She can feel Hana bristle next to her, wanting to do the same. However, what her ally had said a few minutes ago did have some truth. Pilate was better as a friend than an enemy. If it was him or Coral, she'd pick him. It wasn't right, but it's what she needed to do if she wanted to win and show her family that they couldn't ignore her anymore.

Coral begins to cry, silver tears streaming down her face.

"Come on, please dude," Archie mutters, "she's really talented, and if you don't let her in, you'll be losing a strong ally. You'll regret it."

"Well if you think she's so strong and talented, you can leave too," Pilate suggests, blinking his eyes at Archie as if it was an obvious choice.

And it was. She knew it, Hana knew it, Pilate knew it, Clay knew it, and Archie knew it too.

He looks at Coral, his eyes beginning to water. She's full out bawling now, her cheeks stained red with tears.

"I'm sorry," Archie murmurs, looking down at his feet at his shuffling feet. A drop falls from his eye and hits the floor, splashing against the white tile. "You're a cool person, but only one of us can win. I need to make sure that person is me."

Pilate gives Archie a pat on the back. "Good decision," he whispers in his ear.

And then the five of them walk away, leaving Coral alone at the spear station to wonder what the hell just happened.

To Valentine, everything about that situation felt so wrong. She wanted to speak up for Coral so badly. Yet, it was the right choice. She tells herself it's the right – yes, yes - it's the right choice.

* * *

 _Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Male._

* * *

He's never met someone in his life as persistent as North Brier.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Morty?"

He bites his tongue, suppressing his urge to snap at her. Right now, he's trying a strategy where he just pretends she doesn't exist and hopes desperately that she'll get tired and go away. So, he ignores her, turning his body toward the trainer in an attempt to box her out. He's trying – he really is – to learn how to use a knife so he won't be a lost cause in the games. And he's always had a bad attention span – it was one of the reasons he dropped out of school at such a young age – but he's trying, he's trying. He doesn't have many skills that can be translated to the games, and he needs to use every minute of these three days to learn as many as he can. He sister back in Twelve needs him to come home, and he's going to do everything in his power to make sure it's not in a wooden box.

Yet, North was making it so damn hard.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

If she thinks this is funny, it's not. This is life and death – it's not some little game where she and her friends run around in circles giggling until they get dizzy and fall to the ground, then a minute later get up and do it again. People are going to get hurt. There is going to be blood – death – killing. It's not a laughing matter.

Yet apparently, she thinks it is. What twisted world is she living in where she believes everything is going to be alright?

"This trainer knows shit," she whispers in his ear, twirling one of the practice knives around in her hand. "I've used knives my whole life. You don't hold a knife like that, you hold it like this."

North juts the sharp objects in front of his face, demonstrating the correct way to hold it. Mortimer jumps back in surprise when he sees the knife fly in front of his face, squeaking in terror.

"What the hell North? Can you not stick objects that could possibly kill me right in my face?"

Oops, there goes his plan of pretending she doesn't exist.

She blushes, putting the knife back down on the table. "Sorry, I just wanted to get your attention. I didn't know if aliens had come down to earth and hijacked your brain or not. I needed to know."

"Well they haven't," he growls, angrily throwing his knife back on the table and walking away. "And don't think about following me, okay?"

She laughs, bounding after him. "I'm not thinking about following you, I am following you!"

Mortimer huffs in annoyance, rolling his dark eyes around in a circle. North walks right beside him, chattering like a little bird in his ear.

"I'm thinking the arena is going to be something like a jungle. Wouldn't that be cool? I've always wanted to see a jungle. I wonder if there are going to be tiger mutts. Do you know how to fight a tiger, Morty? It's okay if you don't, I promise to protect you. I'll fight off a tiger for you. I'll fight off a bear for you. Would you fight a bear for me?"

"No."

"Okay, that's fine! I can tell you're a lover and not a fighter anyway. I—"

He zones out after a while, opening up a book about edible plants and beginning to read it. North keeps talking despite this.

At the beginning of the games, he thought he might have wanted an ally. Perhaps someone bigger and stronger to hide behind and use as a shield such as the District Three tributes or the boy from Ten. Someone he wouldn't get attached to and could cut easily if needed. However, if he let people like North in – bright, sunny, and exuberant people – he'd never be able to let them go.

And in the Games, only one can win. Getting attached only brings heartbreak. And if he let North in, she'd certainly break his heart. He needs to get rid of her before that happens.

As if the universe read his mind, the District Seven boy strolls up to the two of them with a massive grin on his face.

"Hey North!" he exclaims, waving his hand at her welcomingly. She raises an eyebrow, giving him an awkward wave of the hand back.

"Uh - hi?"

He smiles at her warmly. "I was wondering if you wanted to be in my alliance. I was planning to make an alliance of us younger tributes – maybe Marguerite, you, and I?"

North smiles back at him, shaking her head back and forth. "Thanks for the offer, but Mortimer and I are already allies."

Mortimer's eyes almost pop out of his head. He turns toward the young boy, shaking his head back and forth. "No - we are not allies. Absolutely not."

"Oh," the District Seven murmurs. "So is that still a no?"

North opens her mouth to speak, but Mortimer cuts her off. "No, it's a yes! She'd love to be your ally!"

The young boy's face lights up, only to quickly deflate again when North speaks.

"It's Bruno, right?" she asks.

He nods.

"Look - Bruno – I don't really want to ally with you. Sorry."

"I-it's okay," the curly haired boy stutters, obviously upset. "I understand. If you still want to in a few days, let me know."

He walks away with his head hung low and his footsteps heavy.

Mortimer growls, pulling her aside. "What the hell was that? You got a good offer and you just declined it?"

North shrugs. "I don't trust that kid."

"Why not? He seemed perfectly trustworthy to me!" Mortimer exclaims in frustration.

"My gut just told me no," North replies plainly.

"Your gut? Your _gut_?"

"Yeah, my gut."

He growls, inhaling deeply.

"Whatever," he huffs in frustration. "I'm done with you. And we're still not allies, alright? I told you, I'm not allying with anyone. Do what you want, I don't care. Just leave me alone."

And then he stomps off, and as always, she follows right after him like a puppy dog to its owner.

If he wants to get rid of her, he's going to have to try harder.

* * *

 _Freyja Abbott, 17._

 _District Three Female._

* * *

She's never been rejected before.

She watches the careers train by the sword station with a jealous green gaze. Green has always been the color of envy, or at least that's what her mother had always said, but it's usually when people are envious of her – of her pretty pearl necklaces and new dresses made with soft fabrics – not the other way around. She, the mayor's daughter, was often the target of jealousy back in Three.

It's weird for it to be the other way around, jealous of someone else.

Freyja really thought they'd take her, she really did. She's strong and tall, with muscular limbs and determined eyes – _who wouldn't take her?_ She even told them she had trained for years, but even that fact didn't change their minds. The muscular boy from District Two just laughed and called her a liar, a desperate, conniving liar. _People will do anything these days to be part of our alliance,_ he chuckled as he walked away, _anything. It's sad really._

Some of them laughed at that comment, then turned their backs and left her behind, not even offering to give her a chance to test her skills.

If only she had – then maybe, maybe -

Freyja feels her chest bubble with a vivacious anger just simply thinking about it now, and she hurls a spear right at the target – directly into the red bullseye. She looks up to see if any of them are even watching. They aren't.

Whatever. She doesn't care what they think. She's amazing and if they knew the real her, they'd take her in a heartbeat. Anyone would.

Training is beginning to wind down, and many of the tributes are beginning to clump around the door of the lunch room, anxious to eat. She can feel her stomach rumbling too. Freyja looks up at the clock that reads 11:59. One more minute. Dropping her spear back onto the rack, she heads over to the door. A bell rings and it opens a moment later, revealing rows upon rows of rectangular tables. At the back of the room is a buffet stacked high with so much food it's overwhelming just to look at.

After piling different slices of bread, grainy kinds of pasta and sweets onto her plate, she sits down at the end of one of the table and eats in silence. A few tables away, the careers sit, laughing and chatting amongst themselves.

She could have been there. She _should_ have been there.

 _You know what?_ She's strong, confident, and a natural born leader. She can make her own alliance, and it'll be ten times better than theirs. She'll show them how good she really is, and then they'll regret not letting her in.

Looking around the cafeteria, her eyes scan for older, stronger, outer district tributes that stuck out to her during the first few hours of training. The girl from Four is the first she sees, sitting alone at another end of the table.

Time to put her campaigning skills into action.

She stands from her seat, making her way over to the short haired girl sitting a few tables away.

"Hi, I'm Freyja," the redheaded girl introduces, sticking her hand out for the other girl to shake. She remembers to smile widely, just like her dad did when he was meeting potential voters. "Mind if I sit?"

"I'm not looking for allies right now," the Four girl replies harshly, looking down at her food. She swirls her spoon around in her clam chowder soup.

Freyja is a bit taken aback by the girl's bluntness, but she doesn't give up quite yet. "I'm not necessarily looking for allies either, I just saw you were sitting alone and I was wondering if you wanted company."

"Well I don't want any," she growls, still not meeting Freyja's gaze. "I like being alone."

"O-okay," Freyja stutters confusedly. From what she saw on the chariots last night, she didn't take the girl for the quiet type. She was blabbing to her district partner so loudly she could hear it all the way from her own chariot. "If you change your mind though, the chair next to mine will always be open."

She smiles once more, then turns and walks away.

That went _way_ worse than expected.

Her next choice is the District Six girl, who looked decently strong and was throwing axes at the target this morning with decent accuracy. However, when she looks over at the girl she's sitting with the Eleven tributes, snorting milk out of her nostrils. Then, a minute later, she's teaching the two of them how to balance a spoon on her nose. She'd prefer serious people in her alliance, not – well – _that_.

After the Six girl her best option is the boy from District Ten, who despite only focusing on the survival stations earlier today, she can tell might have a trick or two up his sleeve. The older District Ten tributes were always talented in the past, either having worked on the farms or in butcher shops for most of their lives. Freyja guesses this boy is no exception.

However, he's sitting with _Skylar._

Of course her district partner has already snatched him up. He might be a lazy spoiled brat, but Freyja knows that when he told her on the train that he was going to find some allies that weren't complete bitches, he was serious about it.

So that's another one crossed off her list.

And after that, her list doesn't get much bigger. Mostly everyone else is either too young, too unskilled, or had paired off with their district partners and probably won't be very welcoming to a somewhat bossy girl with a very fixed agenda of proving the careers wrong about her.

She knows what she has to do, but she doesn't like it. Not one bit.

 _"Skylar,"_ she quips, giving him her best mayor's-daughter-campaign smile.

He snorts, looking up from his conversation with Braxton and turning toward her. "Oh, look what the cat dragged it. I knew you'd be back. You finally figured out that your mayor's daughter privilege doesn't extend beyond the borders of Three?"

She instantly drops the nice girl act. "Fuck you."

"Yeah, fuck you too."

Braxton snickers a few feet away at their exchange. "I'm guessing you two know each other?"

"Yeah, we have a bit of a history," Sky responds, then turns back to Freyja. "So now that we're done with our introductions, did you just come here just to swear at me and make me want to kill you even more?"

"No," Freyja replies, exhaling deeply. She hates doing this – her entire life she has been taught to be prideful, to stand up for herself, and not apologize for things she has done. Yet, this is the Hunger Games, and if she wants to win, she needs to forget all that and suck up her pride. "I came here to say I'm sorry."

He raises a brow, and Braxton laughs.

"Well, fuck you was quite the start to an apology."

She shrugs, smiling slightly. "I've never been the best at it."

"More like never apologized at all," Sky hisses, "all you do is cry to daddy and he gets you whatever you want."

 _Like you're any different._ She bites her lip. "I'm going to try to ignore that. Anyway, I came to say I'm sorry for snapping at you on the train. I was in shock that I was reaped and I didn't think about my words before I said them. I just never thought it would happen. I didn't even think about the fact that my dad put us all in danger. It's just – he was being selfish, and I didn't want to think of him like that. It's hard to think that someone you love could've hurt you. I was mad at him. I was mad at myself. I was mad at everything – even you. I was just mad, period. And I said some things I regret. I'm sorry if I hurt you because I didn't mean it."

Sky nods his head. "Apology accepted."

"Really?" she asks, raising a brow. _If it was always that easy, maybe she should have done it more._

"Yeah," he replies. "If we're going to get out of here, we need to work together, not separately. You're strong and trained. I'd be a fool not to take you. I can put my feelings aside if it means I get to live a day more."

"Plus, we're going to need all the help we can get if we're going to get to the end," Braxton adds. "Even if you're a complete bitch."

Freyja laughs, taking a seat beside him. "I promise I'm only a bitch some of the time."

Sky gives her a look. "Most of the time."

"Okay," she giggles, "most of the time."

* * *

 _Eliora Abraham, 16._

 _District Nine Female._

* * *

"I think we should get more allies," Lennox suggests after they're finished eating lunch.

Eliora's face goes pale as a ghost. A million questions instantly run through her head. _Why did he want more allies? Did he not like her? Was she not enough for him? Did he want to leave her?_

She thought they were fine – she thought they had a good thing going. Her and Lennox were laughing the entire morning as they tried to learn how to use a knife and later a sickle. And last night he and she were bouncing up and down on the couches like they were just kids having innocent fun. Why didn't he like her anymore?

Maybe she's just overreacting; maybe she's just paranoid. Lennox probably still likes her: he's a sweet kid and likes everyone he meets. _But what if she's an exception?_

"I—l don't know if that's such a great idea," Eliora stammers as they walk back into the training room.

Her district partner tilts his head to the side. "Why not? In my opinion, the more the better!"

Eliora shakes her head back and forth, scanning the room as the other tributes begin to spread out at the stations once more for the afternoon training session. "I just don't have a good feeling about the other tributes," she murmurs. "What if they're untrustworthy? What if they betray us and kill us in our sleep?"

"How do we know if we've never even met them?" he asks innocently, blinking his puppy-dog eyes back up at her.

 _Tizrah did the same thing whenever she wanted something,_ she recalls _, but it never worked on her. Don't give into the puppy-dog eyes._

"I-l know you like to think the best of people Lennox, but these people aren't your friends. They want to hurt you."

He shakes his head, gesturing to the siblings from District Five looking at knives like they are foreign objects from a mysterious alien planet. "They don't look like they want to hurt us."

Eliora stops walking, turning to face him. "It might be just an act," she says seriously, her paranoia making her hands shake as she talks. "They want you to think that they're weak so you'll trust them and then the first chance they get they'll slit your throat. Trust me, I know."

He blinks at her. "You think a lot."

"I know," she replies, "maybe sometimes too much."

"No," Lennox responds with his signature smile, "it's just enough. You always have a backup plan. That's good."

He seems to just find the positives in everyone. She wishes she could do that.

She nods her head quickly, then points over to the sickle station before Lennox has a chance to bring up the whole ally thing again. Maybe if she keeps him busy, he'll forget about his idea of getting more allies.

"Let's go back to the sickle station."

"Okay!" he responds joyfully, bounding over to the booth where a trainer sits behind a table of sickles. "I bet I can slice up more dummies then you!"

Eliora rolls her eyes playfully, putting the whole ally thing behind her. Maybe Lennox does like her after all. Maybe she is enough for him.

However, just in case, Eliora needs to keep him distracted. If he finds an ally he likes better than her – say another person their age from another district - Lennox might abandon her. That's one of her greatest fears: being abandoned. She's going to do everything in her power to make sure that never happens. No way.

Lennox hands her a sickle, and they step into the small practice "arena" where dummies pop up out of the ground every few seconds.

"You ready?" he asks her, his eyes glittering with joy.

Eliora nods her head mutely, still wondering how he can be so happy in a place like this where death may be just days away. It either took a massive amount of optimism or denial to still be smiling like he had been their entire stay in the Capitol.

"Alright! Three – two – one!"

Lennox presses a red button on the side of the pit and suddenly, a dozen or so plastic dummies pop out of the ground. Eliora jumps slightly as they fly up around her, then begins to slash quickly at the plastic flesh. Lennox is doing the same a few feet away from her, laughing as he slashes mostly air.

A minute later a timer beeps, and all the dummies fall back to the ground.

"I got four! How many did you get?" Lennox asks, grinning widely.

She smiles slyly. "Six."

"Nice job! I was so close! I want a rematch!"

Eliora giggles, twirling her sickle playfully in her fingers. "Only if you're ready to lose again."

"I'd like to see you try!"

Just as he's about to press the button to start the minute game again, the District Six girl gives Lennox a wave of her hand. "This looks like fun. Can I join you guys?"

Lennox nods his head rapidly. "Of cour—"

"No," Eliora replies harshly, running up to Lennox and placing a hand on his shoulder possessively as if to say: _he's my ally, back the hell off._

"So I'll take that as a like, maybe?"

Lennox opens his mouth to speak, but the older girl cuts him off again. "It's kind of a District Nine thing, so no, sorry. Don't you have your own District partner to do stuff with?"

"Well, he's kind of deaf," the girl replies bluntly. "He's not the best person to play games with, if you know what I mean. Can't really respond to anything I say."

"Learn sign language then," Eliora sneers.

"It's kind of hard to learn in a few days. I mean – I barely know English!"

Lennox giggles at the girl's joke, but Eliora isn't amused.

"See, this guy gets it."

"You seem to know English pretty well," Eliora jibes, blinking irritably. "You're speaking it, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but - "

"We need to get back to training, alright? It was nice chatting with you, but I for one actually have things to do."

The Six girl looks down at her feet uncomfortably.

"Bye," Eliora says, giving the girl a wave.

"Bye," the District Six girl replies, then sulks away, her head drooping as she walks.

"Have a nice day!" Lennox calls after her.

"You too bro!"

"She seemed nice," her district partner mutters and turns toward her with a grin.

Eliora frowns. "Too nice. Something was off about her. Lennox, that girl would have slit your throat in a second."

She doesn't know if she quite believes her own words, but it doesn't matter. It's all about what Lennox believes, and if he thinks that everyone out there is looking to kill him, then maybe he'll stay with her. She's not going to let herself be abandoned again, even if that means lying and stretching the truth to make it be that way.

* * *

 **A/N:** And the first day of training is in the books! Can you only believe we have 6 more chapters until the bloodbath? Yeah, me neither.

I hope you like this chapter, and tell me what you think about it! We're finally getting to some of the career drama I have planned, which is always fun, and I'm honestly having such a good time writing all these characters. However, I don't always get them a 100% right, so if you have an issue with anything I do, please feel free to PM me. For you all that haven't written a SYOT, 24+ POVs is a hard thing to do. But I try my best.

See you all next time when we see the 4 we haven't heard from yet, plus one more!

paper :)


	21. Training Day II: The Truth Hurts

_Training Day II: The Truth Hurts_

* * *

 _Takei Sadeh, 17._

 _District Eleven Male._

* * *

He can't stop thinking about Winnifred.

He doesn't quite know why – these are the Hunger Games, and his only thought should be finding a way to survive. Yet, he feels himself drifting from further and further that goal – putting training off just to spend more time with her. Maybe it's the fact that he doesn't want to think about dying and is in denial that he's really here, a tribute in the Hunger Games and from a district that's never achieved more than 9th place. Maybe he wants to prolong training so he still feels like he has time to live, or maybe - maybe it's actually her.

He loves the devil-may-care attitude she walks around with; he's fascinated by the way she doesn't even seem to be fazed by the fact that she could die in only a matter of days. She lives life to the fullest, laughing as she scurries up the rock wall and tossing axes at the target like it's just one silly game, not a matter of life and death. He wishes he could be more like that – more carefree. Manisha's not like that at all. She's nice, that's one thing, and very agreeable. However, she's almost the opposite of Winnifred, quiet and reserved, very focused on the task at hand. He likes her – he really does – but he sees her as more of a little sister than anything else.

"What do you want to do today?" Takei asks, turning toward his younger district partner.

She shrugs her shoulders, looking around the wide room. "Do you want to try camouflage?" Manisha asks, pointing over to the empty station.

He nods his head, and the two of them make their way over to the small booth filled with different natural pigments made from berries and flowers. The trainer instructs them on how to find and make the pigments, and Manisha seems to be listening intently, but he can't focus on what the trainer is saying for more than a few seconds at a time.

His eyes keep drifting over to Winnifred at the ax throwing station. He notices the short, skinny girl is strangely adept at the weapon for someone of her size and stature.

He turns back toward Manisha. "I'll be right back, alright?"

"Oh-okay. Where are you going?" his ally asks in a quiet voice, but he doesn't hear her, already making his way toward Winnifred at the ax station.

She probably doesn't even like him – he's weird, an anomaly – he's supposed to like guys, and she's probably normal and likes girls like every other female does. However, if these are his few last days on earth, he should at least try.

"Hey Winnifred!" he chortles as he walks up to her from behind.

Placing the ax in her hand down on the table, she turns towards him with a crooked, cute smile.

"Just call me Freddie," she giggles, "Winnifred is what my mother calls me when she's mad at me for staying out past curfew or something. Whenever someone calls me Winnifred, it strikes fear right into my heart." She pounds her chest and pretends to die. "You really want to kill me before the games even begin?"

He laughs. "I mean – it'd improve my odds."

She slaps him on the shoulder playfully. "You aren't serious, are you?"

He grins slyly, his cheeks flushing a hot red. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. You have to figure out which one it is for yourself."

Freddie snorts. "Was that a challenge, Mr. Mysterious?"

"I don't know," he chuckles, "If I told you, I wouldn't be Mr. Mysterious, right?"

She nods her head. "I guess you have a point. So who really are you, Takei? A secret undercover capitol agent? A spy for the government?"

Takei shakes his head. "I wish. I'm just your normal boy from Eleven. Went to school for a while, dropped out, grew up in a regular home with my two dads, was - "

"Two dads?" Freddie questions, blinking at him like he just told her he was, in fact, a secret undercover spy for the Capitol.

"Yeah," he replies plainly. "What's wrong with that?"

"Having two dads doesn't sound normal to me."

Now he's the one blinking like she just told him she was an undercover agent for the Capitol. "What do you mean? All guys have two dads, and all girls have two moms."

"Not me. I have a dad and a mom. I mean – they don't pay much attention to me, but I have them."

"D-does everyone have a mom and a dad in Six?" Takei asks, his eyes wide in disbelief. Maybe – maybe he wasn't so different after all. He always knew that his community was weird and different. Maybe his feelings for Freddie were normal, and maybe he was more normal then he thinks.

"Yeah," she responds. "I don't know anyone who is gay."

"What's gay?"

Freddie gawks. "W-where are you from again?"

"Eleven," Takei replies plainly.

"Do you get out a lot?"

"I mean," he mutters, "my dads don't really like when I leave our community, so I guess not."

"Community? Oh shit," Freddie blurts, her eyes wider than a deer in bright headlights.

"What?" he asks, his head tilted to the side in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Takei - I think – I – I don't really know how to break this to you," she stutters, her jaw hanging open for a few seconds as she pauses.

"Just tell me," he orders. "I can take it."

"I think – I mean, I can't be quite sure, but from what you've told me, I think you're in a cult."

He narrows his eyes. "What's a cult?"

She sighs, burrowing her head into her hands. "Oh boy. I have a _lot_ of explaining to do."

She pulls him aside, and as she talks, he completely forgets about Manisha standing at the camouflage statement, still holding onto the promise that he'd be right back.

* * *

 _Bruno Muller, 13._

 _District Seven Male._

* * *

 _Is it bad that he likes being the hero?_

In the past, younger tributes have been written off as dead from the moment they were reaped, but he's planning to change that. He wants to make an alliance of the younger tributes and show people that they're not to be messed with – that they can be strong too, and maybe – maybe if he's lucky – one of them can be a victor and completely break the stigma. He, of course, would prefer it to be him, but if not, he'd be okay if it was North or Marguerite too.

However, North didn't want to join. Which was okay. If he gets Marguerite on board, he's hopeful she'll change her mind.

Marguerite is at the plant identification station when he decides to ask her, studying pictures of plants that were deadly to ingest.

"Why are you looking at pictures of plants that can kill you?" he blurts out, leaning over her shoulder as she reads the pamphlets. "Shouldn't you be looking at plants that you can eat?"

Marguerite doesn't seem to hear him, continuing to look at the pictures of poisonous plants with a fixed and interested gaze.

He repeats his questions again. Once more, she doesn't respond.

"WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT PICTURES OF PLANTS THAT CAN KILL YOU?" he screams in her ear, wondering if she's deaf like the boy from Six.

Finally, she looks up from the paper and laughs. "I'm not hard of hearing," she replies, blinking her wide eyes at him.

"Then why didn't you respond to me the first time?" he questions.

"Because I didn't desire to."

"It's rude not to reply to someone when they're asking you a question," Bruno responds bluntly, not meaning to be rude, but rather informative. Maybe the girl was never taught proper manners as he was. He's just teaching her.

"Maybe I'm attempting to be impolite," she hisses, then looks back down at the paper.

"You talk funny," he blurts. He's never really had much of a filter, and now is no different.

"Your odor is funny," she retorts, her tone rude, "ever heard of this object called antiperspirant? I'd assume not, considering that foul stench radiating off of your body."

Bruno sighs, flashing her a weak smile. That comment was kind of mean. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I wasn't trying to be rude, I was just trying to tell you what's good manners and what's not. Because sometimes some of the poorer kids in Seven don't have the best manners, so I'm just trying to tell you what's right and what's wrong. Want to hear a joke?"

Marguerite doesn't respond, which he takes as a yes.

"What do you call a tree that's good at ma-"

"Geometree," she interrupts before he has a chance to even finish.

"Wow, you must be really smart! How did you know that so quickly?"

She still doesn't respond, grabbing a book about plants and beginning to read through it. He's oblivious to the fact she might be purposely trying to ignore him.

"Okay then, I don't want to waste too much of your time, so I'm just going to cut right to it. Do you want to be in an alliance with me?"

Once again, Marguerite doesn't reply.

"So yes?"

Suddenly, a book comes flying right at his face. It hits him square in the nose, and he yelps in surprise, rubbing the red spot where it hit him.

"Tribute, no using the books as weapons!" the trainer at the station exclaims.

Marguerite still doesn't talk and instead, just smiles widely at him like she won a prize at a carnival.

"I'm going to take that as a no," he mutters, his eyes wide in shock. On the outside, she looked very cute and sweet, but apparently, that wasn't the case. Marguerite is anything but cute and sweet. She's vicious.

Apparently, no one wants him to be a hero. Not her, not North.

Turning around, he almost bumps right into Mortimer.

"Oh, hi there!" Bruno yelps, a bit startled. To his surprise, North isn't following the older boy around like she's attached at the hip to him.

"Hi," Mortimer replies with a smile, "You're probably wondering where North is. She's in the bathroom right now."

He nods his head.

"Anyway, I came to tell you that North does want to be your ally!"

His face brightens suddenly. _Finally, a stroke of luck!_ "Really?"

Mortimer nods his head rapidly. "Yeah! But just uh – don't tell her I told you that, alright?"

"Why not?" Bruno asks, confused as to why if she wanted him to be her ally, she didn't want him to know.

Mortimer grins. "Promise me you won't tell her this."

Bruno raises his left hand into the air. "I promise. Should I take an oath?"

The District Twelve boy chuckles. "No, a promise is enough." Then, he leans forward so that his lips are right next to Bruno's ear. "North has a really big crush on you."

"A crush on me?" Bruno asks in surprise, his cheeks flushing a hot red with embarrassment. No girl has ever had a crush on him before.

"Yep. That's why yesterday, she pretended she didn't want to be your ally. She really likes you, but she's trying to play hard to get, you feel me?"

Bruno nods his head up and down, then winks at the older boy. "I get you. But there's only one problem."

Mortimer tilts his head to the side. "What is it?"

"I don't like girls like that."

He pauses for a second, his mouth hanging open. Then, a minute later, he speaks again. "You can't tell her that, alright? It would break her heart. She really really likes you. Like, she's practically in love with you."

"But I should tell her the truth, right? I don't want to lead her on."

Mortimer shakes his head. "No, you can't do that. Look – she's probably going to die in the next few days, and you might be the last crush she ever has! Do you really want to ruin it for her?"

Yeah, Mortimer was right, he can't do that to her. He wants to be the hero, and this is his chance. He can pretend to be straight for a while to give North the best last few days ever.

"No - no I don't," he murmurs. "So what do I need to do?"

"You can't give up," Mortimer replies, looking him right in the eyes. "North is very stubborn, so she'll keep trying to pretend like she's not interested. You just have to keep trying no matter how long it takes. Keep asking her to be your ally until she says yes, even if it takes a hundred tries. And don't leave her alone. Hang out with her every chance you get. Help her learn new skills. Give her food. She loves chocolate a lot. But you can never tell her that I told you this information, alright?"

Bruno nods. "Alright."

Although it's not the way he imagined, he's going to be somebody's hero. Even if it's all a lie.

He doesn't know it's a lie in more ways then one, though.

* * *

 _Gareth Emory, 18._

 _District Eight Male._

* * *

No matter how many times he tells himself he's in the Hunger Games, it still doesn't feel real.

 _You're in the Hunger Games._

 _You're here._

 _You're going to die._

It's like he's in a dream – or better put, a nightmare. Nothing here seems real, not the people with their strangely shaped hair and alien-like appearances, nor the buildings that seem to defy gravity, and certainly not the fact that death may only be a few short days away, a dark and scary unknown looming over him like an inescapable shadow.

He's always thought about death before constantly – but it's never felt as imminent as it does now. He always thought it was something that could happen but never quite would – a problem reserved for the elderly, not young eighteen-year-old boys who are supposed to have the rest of their lives ahead of them.

Standing at the fire making station, he practices again and again how to make a fire from nothing more than a few sticks and rocks. Yesterday he was at the climbing and swimming stations, trying time and time again perfecting both skills. Tomorrow he'll finish it off at the edible plants' station, hoping it will be less crowded than the two prior days. At night, he sits in his bed with a small flashlight and reads chronicles of past Hunger Games, learning the tributes mistakes inside and out so he doesn't make the same ones. He's not going to let himself die – even if the odds aren't in his favor. Death has always been his greatest fear – _what if there is nothing after it? What if it's just a numb darkness?_ _What if it's not even darkness? What if it's just ... nothing?_ Everyone will forget him. He won't exist any longer. He'll just waste away into nothingness. He's not going to let that happen. He's not.

Gareth doesn't dare go near the weapons stations in fear that someone will turn on him and kill him prematurely. Yet, he watches his district partner out of the corner of his eye as she learns how to use a bow. She seems actually alright at it. In another world – another time, another place – he thinks they could have been friends. She's very quiet like him, reserved and shy. They would have made a good pair if one of them was just a bit braver, a bit bolder. Yet, neither of them wants to make the first move – Gareth too afraid that she's holding a dangerous trick up her sleeve, and Beckett, well – too timid for her own good.

Turning back to the fire he's making, he looks up at the trainer. "Am I performing the steps correctly?"

She blinks at him in annoyance. "Yes, for the twefth time, you are doing this right. Do you need me to repeat the steps to you again?"

Gareth nods his head. "Just for reassurance."

The trainer huffs in annoyance, taking a small ball of tinder and placing it in the center of the pit. "First, you take tinder, which can be anything light and thin really. Paper works, or if you have a knife, you can skin the bark of trees. Also, if you're lucky enough to find one, a bird's nest works excellent."

The young boy repeats her words back to her verbatim.

"Can I go onto the next step?" she questions, clenching her teeth frustratedly.

Gareth shakes his head. "No, let me repeat it one more time. First, you take the tinder, which can be anything light and thing really. Paper works, or if you have a knife, you can skin the bark off trees. Also, if you're lucky enough to find one, a bird's nest works excellent."

He can see the trainer roll her eyes. _Whatever._ She's here to teach him, and this is how he learned: memorize everything down to even the smallest detail. However, even that's enough to quell his fears about the Games.

This time, the trainer doesn't even ask if he's ready. She just goes on anyway. "Next, you're going to want to build a small tepee around the tinder with thin sticks. Like so."

She proceeds to build a tent-like structure around the ball of tinder, and Gareth does the same, mimicking her every movement closely.

"You seem to be very good at that," a voice behind him coos.

Gareth is so surprised he practically jumps out of his own skin, leaping high into the air like a frightened cat. Whipping around, he looks at the smiling District Three girl with wide, frightened eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she apologizes with a sympathetic grin.

"Well you did," Gareth growls a little bit too rudely. As soon as the words come out of his mouth, he swears under his breath and cringes silently. _Be nicer,_ he chides in his own head, _why do you have to be so rude all the time? She was just trying to be nice. You're going to make an enemy you don't need right now._

"Uh - uh – I mean – uh – sorry?"

 _Annddd he just word barfed. That's awkward._

Surprisingly, the girl's smile doesn't waiver. "It's alright, apology accepted. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to join my alliance. We're trying to recruit as many older tributes as we can so we can finally have an alliance that will rival the careers. So far it's me - I'm Freyja, by the way, Braxton from District Ten, my District partner Skylar, and we're working really hard on getting Coral, the girl from Four. The siblings didn't want to join, and neither did the girls from Seven and Six. So if you don't want to join, I completely understand, but if you do, I think it'd be a way to live a little bit longer and maybe have some security in the games!"

Gareth shakes his head. He doesn't trust an alliance that big that lets anyone in without even getting to know them first. The odds are that someone in the alliance is a snake that'd turn on their allies the first chance they get. He can't take that chance.

"I'm appreciative of the extremely generous offer, but I'm regretfully going to have to decline. My apologies."

She looks at him a bit funny like he just spoke Spanish or another foreign language, but he's used to it. His language choice has always been a bit odd, and people often do look at him funny just like Freyja did. He's learned to take it as more of a compliment rather than an insult, however.

"Okay, well, if you change your mind, let us know."

And then she leaves and goes to talk to his district partner. He wonders if she's just going down the line of tributes, asking everyone she comes upon. If so, that alliance is going to implode within the first day.

Turning back toward the trainer, he gives her an awkward smile.

"Can you repeat the previous step once more?"

"Once more?" the trainer asks, raising a suspicious brow. "Or twenty more times?"

"Probably closer to fifty, but if I'm extremely focused, we can strive for thirty."

She rolls her eyes and then huffs. She begins to speak again, and Gareth listens, not wanting to miss a single word because that word could be the difference between life and death in the arena.

* * *

 _Archer "Archie" Caspian, 17._

 _District Four Male._

* * *

"Move, shrimp," Pilate hisses at the tiny twelve-year-old girl sitting at the lunch table they sat at yesterday. "This is the big kids' table."

She doesn't look up from her book, spooning food into her mouth as she reads. When she doesn't move after a minute, Pilate bangs his fist down on the table loudly. This gets her attention, and the girl looks up from her book, staring straight into his icy eyes as if she were daring him to get closer.

"Get going," he growls, narrowing his eyes at her. She does the same, narrowing them back. "You can read that somewhere else."

Then, a moment later, she stands to her feet, placing her book on the lunch tray and grabbing it with her two hands. It's only then Archie notices how short she is. Narrowing her eyes at Pilate, the girl grins slyly. Then, she does something completely unexpected. She spits right in his face.

Pilate yelps in surprise, staggering backward and wiping the wet saliva from his face. Hana, Clay, and Valentine all burst into laughter, and Archie can't help but chuckle along with them.

"What the hell, you little prick!" Pilate howls after the girl, who walks away calmly, her head held high. "I'm going to kill you first, twerp! You better watch your back!"

"That was the best thing I've seen all day," Clay chuckles, taking a seat at the table. Hana and Valentine nod in agreement, sitting down next to him. Archie takes the seat across from Clay.

"Yeah Pilate, how does it feel to get owned by a twelve-year-old girl?" Hana asks, turning toward him with the widest smile Archie's ever seen. And that's saying something, considering how much Hana smiles. She literally loves everything to the with the Hunger Games. The weapons, the food, even her awful chariot costume. He wishes he could be that positive about the whole situation as her.

"I didn't get _owned_ by her," Pilate hisses back, taking a seat at the edge of the group, "she made a grave mistake. She'll be the first one I kill in the bloodbath, and I'm going to make it hurt. She'll regret spitting in my face soon enough."

 _"Okayy,"_ Valentine giggles, winking at him. Clay laughs and winks at him too, trying to do it flirtatiously like his district partner did. He fails miserably though, looking more like a creep than anything else. The four of them burst into laughter while Pilate just eats his food quietly, fuming silently to himself.

"You know back in One, they call me Golden Boy," the handsome boy confesses.

Archie raises a brow. "No way. You must be lying. With that wink, you must get no action."

Valentine shakes her head back and forth. "Nope, it's true. Everyone calls him Golden Boy, and he gets _all_ the girls. Probably more than you, Archie."

The red-headed boy grins. "Well, that's not a problem for me, because I don't even like girls."

Hana chuckles. "Well, I do."

Once again, all of them break into a fit of laughter – all of them except Pilate, that is. The District Two boy eats his food silently, and Archie can see him stealing envious glances at the four of them every so often.

 _Well if he wanted to make friends, maybe he should have thought that through before he began to run the alliance like a cruel dictatorship._

"I'm going to use the bathroom. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," Pilate announces, then stands up and heads over to the restroom.

"Hey guys," Archie announces with a sly smile once Pilate's out of sight, grabbing a small bottle of liquor he stashed in his shoe the previous night. He places it on the table for all of them to see. "Want to do something stupid?"

Clay shakes his head. "I'm all for pissing off Pilate, but don't drink, sorry. But if you want to do shots, I guess I can grab some soda?"

"I'll do the soda thing too. I can't get distracted, and with that guy around," Hana murmurs, pointing to the direction Pilate disappeared in, "I need to keep my senses sharp. You never know when he's going to break and go bizerk."

Archie snorts, then turns to Valentine, his eyes landing on the dark-skinned girl. For a moment, he thinks she's going to say no, which he understands, as it is the Hunger Games after all and like Hana said, she might not want to get distracted from the task at hand. However, Archie's not too confident he's going to make it out alive, and he wants to make these next few days the best that he can. And if that means getting a bit buzzed, it means getting a bit buzzed.

A slight smile appears on Valentine's face, and she takes the flask, untwists it, and pours some in her lass. "And I took you for a goody-two-shoes, Ginger."

"Is that a dare?"

"Only if you want it to be," she grins, raising her lips to the glass and taking a sip. "Mhmm. Tastes absolutely awful."

"Oh! But that's the best part," Archie chuckles, unscrewing the cap and taking a giant sip from the flask. It burns his throat like fires as it slides down, but it's a pain that feels good, like ripping a Band-Aid off his leg.

Hana snorts, watching them as she eats. "You two are so dumb."

"It's a dare!" Archie protests, flinging his hands up into the air. "Who declines a dare?"

"I don't know," Clay replies, placing his hand on his chin as if he were pretending to think really hard. "Maybe a sane person?"

Archie smiles at him, and Clay smiles back. It's all playful, he knows, unlike the type of teasing Pilate does. Surprisingly, the four of them have gotten rather close over the past two days. They feel almost like a tightly knit group of friends. He takes another sip and laughs, it's a warm and fuzzy laugh, and a minute later everything begins to feel more vivid, like he's finally living - like he's back in Four, lying on the warm sand with his boyfriend, talking about what they'll do once he wins the games.

It's never been a question for him of whether he'd volunteer – it was a fact of life, and there was no escape from his fate. His stern mother made it so there was only one choice. He told his boyfriend he'd be back – he would – but will he, really?

He lets his body slump back in his chair, and he tries to forget where he is.

If this is what letting go feels like, maybe dying won't be so bad after all.

* * *

 _Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Male._

* * *

The first thing he sees when he gets back from the bathroom is Archie slumped back in his chair, laughing hysterically. The second thing he sees is a glass flask sitting in the middle of the table, its contents almost empty.

He leaves them alone for eight fucking minutes and this happens. _Fantastic._

Stomping up to the table, he yanks the flask out of Archie's hand and dumps it out on the floor.

"Hey!" the red-headed boy exclaims, reaching for the glass bottle. "That's mine!"

"This is _yours_?" Pilate inquires angrily, his lips curled into a frown.

"Oh boy," he can hear Hana whisper to Clay, "here we go again."

"Alcohol is not something that should be consumed by careers!" Pilate yells angrily, grabbing Hana's glass and dumping it on the table. She yelps as water spills all over her training suit. He does the same with Clay's glass, but the boy is quicker this time, leaping out of the way as water splashes all over the table. Valentine holds her glass fiercely, but he's stronger, yanking it out of her hand and pouring it onto the table. This time, a brownish liquid comes out.

"You too?" he squawks. "I thought you told me you didn't party."

"I never said that," the Hispanic girl growls, wiping the sticky liquid off her suit. "I just said I'm not your stereotypical party girl. I never said I didn't party."

Pilate growls, clenching his teeth. "Whatever. Lunch is over. We're going to get back to training."

"But I'm not done eating!" his district partner, Hana, protests.

Taking his own glass, Pilate dumps his water on the rest of her food. She squeaks again as the remaining half of her sandwich gets drenched in a coating of water.

"Now you are," he growls. "Let's go."

His allies stand wearily, following in line behind him. He's not deaf – he can hear the things that Hana, Valentine, and Clay whisper to each other about how they could be better leaders and about how Pilate was too cruel. But he can take it. He's heard much worse than that. And what matters is that he's in control; his allies don't have to like it, they just have to obey.

However, he can't have his alliance members disobeying him directly like they just did with the alcohol and the comments at lunch. They're beginning to get more comfortable, which means that his power and control over them is beginning to decrease. He needs to keep them on their toes. He needs to do something rash, something crazy.

A little part of him knows he's turning into Draco, the controlling boy he always swore he'd never be like, but if that's what it's going to take to lead this alliance and win the games, he's going to have to be a bit cruel and controlling. After the games, he can go back to being his normal self. He can play his music again and be happy.

"Let's spar with the trainers this afternoon," he declares, heading over to the combat area. His four allies follow behind him, Archie still laughing like a lunatic.

Once he reaches the station, he turns back toward his allies, narrowing his eyes at the four of them. "Someone who isn't drunk, go first," he orders sternly. "I'll give you pointers as you spar."

"Why do _you_ need to give _us_ pointers?" Valentine asks, tapping her foot in annoyance. The alcohol seemed to take away whatever filter she had previously.

"Because I'm the leader, remember?"

"Actually, I don't."

He feels a panicked knot form in his throat, and he turns to Clay abruptly. "Go."

The tall District One boy nods his head mutely and makes his way up to the small arena, grabbing a sword off the rack.

"What level difficulty would you like?" the trainer standing by the pit asks.

Clay opens his mouth to respond, but Pilate quickly cuts him off.

"The hardest one you have."

He can see Clay gulp nervously.

"You're a career, you can take it," Pilate says to his ally. "Or if not, you don't have to be part of this alliance. We're the best, so we fight the best."

"O - okay," the light brown-haired boy stutters, stepping into the arena. "I'm the best," he utters, as if he's trying to convince himself, "they don't call me Golden Boy for nothing."

"Good. That's what I thought."

Valentine laughs in the corner. "He can speak for himself, alright Pilate? You're such a bully."

"Shut your mouth drunkie, or you're out too," he snaps back at her.

She mumbles something to Hana sitting next to her. They both snort a moment later.

"The both of you, quiet. I'm serious."

"You know, Pilates are like things that middle-aged ladies used to do when they wanted to lose weight, right?" Valentine informs him, snickering.

"Shut up."

"Okay, middle-aged woman exercise," Hana giggles, giving him a small wave from a few feet away.

He clenches his fists into small balls, but thankfully, that's the last comment either of them makes. They both shut up after that, their attention fixed on Clay's sparring match with a trainer who looks more like a gorilla than a man.

However, both of them are getting way too comfortable making comments like that. Alcohol or not.

Turning his attention to Clay, he's surprised to see that the boy isn't doing so well. He's only seen him use his preferred weapon, a sword, with dummies before. He looked pretty good then. Yet, right now, his movements are slow and sluggish, almost as if he were tired. He goes to dodge a blow but the trainer is much faster, hitting him in the side with the fake wooden sword. If it was in the games and the sword was real, that could have possibly been fatal.

Clay goes to strike the trainer in the legs, but his jibe was lethargic, and the trainer saw it coming a mile away. He dodged it with ease, then came down and slammed his sword right into Clay's shoulder. It didn't even look like the career made an effort to move.

"Stop! Stop!" Pilate exclaims, waving his hands in the air.

Clay looks over at him with a confused expression. "Why?" He huffs, seeming unusually winded for someone who had only been fighting for a few minutes.

"You would have been dead by now."

"For once," Hana chimes in, "I agree with the bully."

He feels the hair on his back bristle but tries to ignore her comment.

Clay nods, dropping his sword and making his way onto the outside of the pit. Pilate can see his eyes drooping with tiredness, and immediately, the District One boy takes a seat on the ground beside Hana.

If he was that tired after one fight, he shouldn't be in this alliance.

"Tired?" Pilate inquires, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Clay replies, nodding his head slowly. He yawns a moment later. "I think I need a nap."

"You don't get naps in the games," he growls, his tone turning sour.

Clay yawns again, his eyelids drooping further. "Look, I think I just got a poor night's sleep last night. I - "

Pilate cuts him off. "Well if you got a poor night's sleep in a nice bed, you won't sleep at all during the games."

As soon as he says that, an idea dawns upon him. An idea that will secure his spot as the leader for good and make sure he's the one calling the shots. There won't even be a question of his leadership after this.

"Look, Clay – with that performance, I don't think you have what it takes to be in the alliance."

He knows that isn't true; after him, Clay is the second strongest person in the career alliance. He's tall, strong, and muscular, and when he was training with the dummies, his skills almost rivaled Pilate's own. If Hana, Val, and Archie are ever to get sick of Pilate as the leader, they'll probably make Clay leader instead. However, this is the perfect time to remove Clay from the equation altogether. With him out of the alliance, there will be no one else to rival his skills so they'll have to keep him around. It's genius.

"What?" the boy gawks. "B - but I've been training for years! I beat out five other boys for this spot!"

Pilate smiles at him sadly. "Well that's too bad, isn't it?"

Clay looks like he just got hit by a truck. His jaw hangs open, and his eyes are wide in surprise. Not to mention he looked exhausted too.

Pilate turns toward Hana, Archie, and Valentine, who all look as shocked as their former ally.

"And if any of you want to think about speaking up for him, be my guest. You can leave too."

He smiles as he hears silence, music to his ears. Of course no one wants to leave. He's the strongest tribute, and the only thing worse than having him as an ally is having him as an enemy. No one would even dare if they have a good head on their shoulders.

"You know what? I'm done with this bullshit," Valentine says, standing up to face him. "Last time I didn't listen to my gut when you kicked out Coral even though I knew it was wrong. And it happened again. I'm putting my foot down. Clay is ten times the tribute you'll ever be. Unlike you, he doesn't rule with fear. He's actually nice to us. You're just a bully. A big, scared bully. Inside I bet you're so insecure you cry yourself to sleep at night."

Pilate's eyes widen in surprise as the girl steps over to Clay's side.

 _Whatever. Maybe he miscalculated one, but the other two couldn't be that brave, right?_

"Yeah, I'm done too," Hana announces, standing up and walking over to join Clay and Valentine. "I never liked you anyway, even before the reapings. Draco was always better. And I'm not scared anymore. Alone, you're nothing. You're not even a threat. You're just a scared, little boy."

His jaw drops, and all eyes turn to Archie.

"Archie, look, if you stay with me, we'll rule the arena together!" Pilate exclaims desperately, his voice cracking. "I don't have to be the leader. You can if you want."

"This is for Coral, and for my whiskey," Archie laughs, flipping him two matching middle fingers. "Fuck you, Pilate! Rot in hell!"

Pilate's face goes white as the four of them walk away, laughing as they go.

 _What kind of leader is he if there is no one to lead?_

He's nothing.

Fuck.

 _What did he just do?_

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm guessing it broke sooner then you all expected, hmm? Yeah, well, a little dash of alcohol definitely sped up the process. And what is it with tributes in my games drinking two or the day before the games begin? I don't know.

I hope you liked this chapter, and thank you everyone for the reviews! We're getting so close to the games and it's very exciting! It might be a little bit longer until the next update, as I'm going away for the weekend. However, I'm planning to have the games start by the end of July, so I'll catch up with the updates next week!

Hope you fellow Americans had a nice 4th,

paper :)


	22. Training Day III: Paranoia

_Training Day III: Paranoia_

* * *

 _Coraline "Coral" Seaton, 17._

 _District Four Female._

* * *

They haven't stopped bothering her since the moment the careers dropped her.

Freyja's been all in her ear the past few days, telling her how great and strong their new alliance is going to be. She's a good salesperson, one of the best Coral's seen, and she sells the alliance like it's the greatest thing since sliced bread was invented.

"We're going to take down the careers," Freyja told her yesterday while she was practicing her plant identification. "Don't you want revenge?"

"No," she had replied plainly, "I'm not petty. I don't hold grudges."

However, the more Coral thinks about it, the more she realizes that words she spoke yesterday might not have been completely true. It'd be amazing to show that jerk Pilate how good she was with a spear by impaling one right into his neck. She feels her lips twist into a grin just thinking about it now - thinking about the red blood seeping down his cold, dead body.

Plus, she still was mad at Archie for abandoning her like that. She thought they were friends; she believed she could trust him. Apparently, that trust was misguided.

In the elevator on the way down to the training center, Archie tries to talk to her for the first time since he left her to fend for herself.

"Hey Coral," he coos as the door closes in front of him. She narrows her gaze, staring right at him.

"Don't 'hey Coral' me," she snaps angrily, glaring at him with a pair of fiery eyes. "We're not friends, remember? Or do you not remember leaving me all alone two days ago?"

Archie nods his head. "Okay, I probably deserved that. But look – Pilate's gone now! I was wondering if you wanted to come back in the alliance? Everyone wants you there, including me. You'll be a great asset to our team."

Her expression doesn't falter. "The problem wasn't just Pilate," she spits bitterly. "It was also you."

Archie shutters then turns back toward her. "Look Coral, I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you, but Pilate was a scary guy."

"They'll be other scary guys in the arena, and this time, they'll have weapons," she growls, "who says you won't abandon me again?"

"I say that."

The door to the elevator opens. She looks back at Archie, her expression softening. "Archie, I forgive you. But I don't give second chances. I can't ally with you again. I really really like you, and you're a cool guy, but I can't trust you again. I'm sorry."

And then she turns abruptly and leaves, making her way toward the red-headed girl standing in the center of the arena, trying to recruit the District Nine tributes. It's like every chance she gets, Freyja butters people up and tries to get them to join.

Coral only catches the end of their conversation.

"No, okay?" The District Nine girl growls, her tone as bitter as her expression. "Lennox and I aren't looking for any allies. Please, leave us alone."

"But you guys are really talented! I saw you at the knife station - "

"Stop," the District Nine girl growls again, her hand protectively placed on her smaller ally's shoulder. "I know you're just trying to flatter me, but it's not working. I can see right through you, alright? You're a snake."

And then she turns and leaves, the boy trailing behind her like a little, lost puppy.

Freyja sighs, but when she sees Coral approaching she instantly perks up. "Hey Coral! Changed your mind yet?"

Coral nods. "Actually, yes. I think I want to join the alliance."

Freyja's pale face lights up as soon as she speaks. "That's awesome! We're so excited! Here, I'll introduce you to everybody!"

Excitedly, the redhead grabs Coral hand and pulls her across the room toward where a small group of people is standing, chatting amongst themselves. Coral takes a deep breath. She can trust these people – she's always given everyone the benefit of the doubt. Now should be no different. Not everyone is like Pilate and Archie, even if the District Nine girl did call Freyja a snake.

"Got one more?" The District Ten boy asks eagerly as the pair approaches.

"Yep!" Freyja exclaim, pushing Coral forward. "This is Coral everyone! Want to introduce yourselves?"

Everyone turns toward her, giving her welcoming smiles.

"I'll go first," the District Ten boy says, "I'm Braxton, and I'm from District Ten. I work in a butcher shop back at home."

"Oh, that's so cool!" Coral exclaims, her guard going down easier then she thought. "Do you like just cut them up, or like – well - "

She trails off at the end, but Braxton knows what he's implying. "Yeah, I kill them too sometimes. But it's not as bad as it seems! It gets easier, and I guess it was practice for this, right?"

Coral nods her head and smiles, yet feels a shiver run down her spine. Braxton looks very nice and friendly on the outside, but he's killed before. He could kill her.

 _Stop it,_ she scolds herself silently. _Don't be paranoid. He's probably nice on the inside too._

The next person to introduce himself is Freyja's district partner. "Hi, I'm Skylar, but please, call me Sky."

She gives him a curt wave. "Hi, Sky."

"And last but not least, this is Beckett!" Freyja announces, gesturing toward the tall girl standing the farthest from her. She smiles bashfully when her name is said and looks down at her feet.

"She doesn't talk much and is very shy," Freyja explains, "but she's really good with spears, just like you and me. And Braxton uses a - "

"Machete," he inputs as Freyja trails off.

"Yes, a machete," Freyja continues, "and Skylar says his preferred weapon is his brain."

"I always find the quickest way to do something that expends the least amount of energy," he says, "it's a skill, really."

Coral giggles. "Oh, I bet. Isn't that called - "

"Laziness?" Freyja asks, shooting him a sly grin.

"I prefer efficient, but I guess you could use that word too, if you really want," Sky snickers.

Out of the corner of her eye, Coral can see the careers training by themselves at the sword station. Freyja picks up on this and smiles, wrapping her arm around Coral.

"You ready to get your revenge?"

She nods. "You bet."

Freyja smiles. "I want it as badly as you do too, trust me. We'll get it. Our alliance will kill them all, together."

Together sounded nice.

* * *

 _Manisha Rollins, 15._

 _District Eleven Female._

* * *

She's wholeheartedly convinced the universe has a vendetta against her.

First, it made her brown in a place where there was only black and white, no in-betweens, no greys. Next, it made it so she could have no friends, no matter how hard she tried. Then it reaped her for the Hunger Games, which she thought would be the end-all-be-all, the final screw you, but no. _No, no, no, no_. The universe had to take it another step farther. Whatever forces out there seemed to hate her so much that finally – finally when she thought one simple little thing could go her way and she could have a friend, just one little measly friend, it tricks her and leaves her feeling even more lonely than before.

It doesn't take a fool to see that her district partner has fallen deep into some sort of puppy love with the not even pretty girl from Six, making goo-goo eyes and drooling over her every moment he gets. It's like he's completely dropped everything and given her his full and undivided attention every second of every minute of every hour of every day.

Even when they're by themselves in their apartment, she's all he ever talks about.

 _Winnifred's so cool! She's so pretty! She's so skilled! I bet she's going to win! I'm so excited to ally with her!_

Which leaves Manisha all alone and forgotten about.

As usual.

It doesn't help that he figured out she was lying about the whole two moms thing either. After that, he has practically ignored her, probably half out of spite and half out of the fact that his fascination with Winnifred takes up most of his time. However, he never broke off the alliance, which she guesses is one positive about the whole situation.

A few feet away, Winnifred shows Takei how to correctly hold an ax. She can see him smile slightly as Winnifred places her hand on his elbow, his cheeks flushing red the moment their skin touches. Her entire life, Manisha's always been able to see the little details like that; she loves watching the slight crease people get in their cheeks when they smile or the way someone's eyes widen slightly when they're shocked or scared. So it's not hard to see the obvious signs of affection Takei is showing toward Winnifred, like the way his chocolate skin blushes pink whenever she talks to him or the way he seems to shyly avert his gaze every time she looks at him.

 _Is she jealous?_ Maybe a little. She wishes she could be touched like that, adored by someone for once in her life.

However, Winnifred doesn't seem to be reciprocating any of these signs, which is at least some consolation for Manisha. Maybe her district partner will get the idea and move on and possibly come running back to her.

But probably not, because again, the universe hates her guts.

Pretending to figure out how to use an ax herself, Manisha listens in on their conversation like she normally does with other people: like an outsider looking in.

"So Freddie, do you have like, a girlfriend at home?" Takei asks hopefully. As he asks this he turns away from Manisha as if she weren't even there at all.

Typical.

Winnifred raises a brow and laughs. "You mean a boyfriend?"

He laughs along too. "Yeah, I almost forgot I'm not at home anymore. So yeah, do you have a boyfriend?"

Winnifred shrugs her shoulders. "No, I don't like to be tied down in that way, you know?"

Takei nods his head like he understands, but Manisha can tell he doesn't by the way he averts his eyes when he talks to her. If you can't look someone in the eyes when you answer them, that's normally an indicator of a lie.

"Yeah, I feel you. But like, would you ever consider having one?"

Manisha rolls her eyes right at him. He's being so blunt right now that she's surprised even socially clueless Winnifred can't pick up the hint.

"Nope. I'm not going to end up like my parents, stressed because they have a million kids and a million responsibilities. Having a partner means having more responsibilities, and my goal in life is to have zero. I want to be free as a bird."

Takei's face slumps as she responds. "Oh, okay."

"Hey, don't look too upset, cult boy! Not all girls are like me! I'm sure Manida over there would love to have a boyfriend like you, right Manida?"

Oh, and there was that. It's nothing new though: she's used to people calling her the wrong name. In her life, she's heard much worse than Manida.

She feels her face flush red as they both look over in her direction. Despite craving attention from her peers more than anything in the world, she's always felt nervous when the spotlight turns onto her like it did during the chariot ride. "It's Manisha," she quietly responds, giving the two of them a weak smile.

"What? Sorry, you speak so quietly, it's really hard to hear."

"Right," she murmurs a little louder, deciding to just let the girl call her Manida because if there was something she hated more than people calling her the wrong name, it was confrontation. "I'm normal, just like every other girl."

And then Takei turns away, boxing her off again from their conversation. He's still mad.

"See Takei, there are so many other fish in the sea. If you want, we can go try out the flirting skills I taught you yesterday on someone else right now! I bet they'll be flattered!"

"Can't I just try them on _you_?" Takei asks with a sly grin, which makes Manisha roll her eyes again.

He's just too much.

Winnifred giggles playfully. "Okay, I guess you can. But I really think it'd be best if you tried it on someone else."

"Want to hear a pickup line?"

Winnifred nods, her poorly cut hair bouncing up and down as her head moves.

"Did you just get reaped for the Hunger Games? Because right now, my heart is playing a tribute to you."

She laughs loudly - it's so loud it's obnoxious – and leans up against the ax rack. "Too soon. But in any other scenario, it would be funny."

"It didn't even make sense," Manisha growls softly.

"What was that Manida?" Winnifred asks, blinking at her dumbly.

Her eyes widen again. The worst part is Takei knows her name but doesn't even bother to correct his little girlfriend.

It makes her want to vomit and cry all at the same time.

"Oh, nothing."

Winnifred laughs, and the two of them turn back toward each other, exchanging their favorite pickup lines. Listening to other people's conversations used to make her feel included, but now it just makes her feel sad. After a while Manisha just stops listening, her mind drifting to different and better universes where she's actually in on the jokes, laughing too.

* * *

 _Lennox Orseni, 15._

 _District Nine Male._

* * *

It's getting harder and harder to see the bright side of things.

He thought Eliora was nice when he met her on the train – a little broken and troubled, yes – but nice, at least. However, as the hours ticked on she's beginning to show a darker side of herself, an exclusive and possessive side that goes against everything he's ever been taught about treating strangers correctly. They've already got two alliance offers and each time Eliora has said no, convincing him that they're just plotting to kill him. It's like she's trying to manipulate him into staying with her because she's so damn unfriendly and without him, she'd have no one.

No, he tells himself silently as he and Eliora continue to work at the knives station, learning how to properly stab someone, _she's fine, she's friendly, what are you talking about, Lennox? People aren't bad; they're good, and Eliora is no different. She's not trying to manipulate you. Her paranoia is just rubbing off on you. Be positive. Be positive._

He takes a deep breath and bottles all his doubts in just as a tall, dark-skinned girl makes her way over to the table.

Lennox lifts his head to face her as she approaches, but to his surprise, she doesn't meet his gaze. She just looks down at the floor as she walks over, then picks up a knife and listens to the trainer quietly, standing beside Eliora.

"Hey," he chimes after a moment of silence. "What's your name?"

"Terra," she replies plainly, not bothering to elaborate and make conversation. She still doesn't look up at him.

"Oh, that's a cool name!" he chortles with a smile. "Where are you from?"

She points to the small white seven on the shoulder of her uniform.

"Seven is such a cool place!" he exclaims, his face lighting up as he begins to spurt out words. "I mean, I've never been, but I can imagine how cool it is there. Are the trees as tall as they say they are?"

"Yes," Terra replies in a very prompt one-word answer.

"Is everyone really a lumberjack?"

"No."

"Are there a lot of animals?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever really seen bigfoot? Does he exist?"

"No and no."

"Do you have a pet squirrel?"

"No."

Meanwhile, his district partner is listening, her eyes wandering between him and the knife as he talks to the stranger. He catches her gaze, and for a moment, he sees a hint of jealousy flash in her pale blue eyes. They look like ice. Then he blinks, and she's looking down at the knife again. Lennox wonders if he's just seeing things.

He continues to ask questions.

"Is it cold in the forest?"

"Sometimes."

"Does anyone ever get lost?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever cut down a tree?"

"No."

Eliora grumbles in annoyance, rolling her eyes at his questions.

"Has anyone in your family ever cut down a tree?"

"No."

"Do you have a family?"

This time, he's met with silence, and for the first time that day, Terra looks up from her knife and stares right into his eyes. They're dark as night, practically black, though he knows eyes can't really be black. For a moment, they're staring at each other, and Terra studies his face. Then her jaw drops slightly and she takes a step back, her eyes widening as if she'd seen a ghost.

"What is it?" Lennox asks innocently, cocking his head to the side. "Did I ask something weird?"

"I - I just don't like to talk about my family," the girl stutters, still staring at him as if he had two heads.

"Oh, okay," Lennox mutters, giving her a smile, "we don't have to then. We can talk about other things."

Terra doesn't say anything. Dropping her knife, she turns to leave. Lennox reaches his arm out as if to catch her, but Eliora grabs his first, yanking it back.

"Let her go," she whispers in his ear, "she's too mysterious and reclusive anyway. She probably murdered her family or something. That's why she doesn't want to talk about them."

 _Why did Eliora have to be so negative all the time?_

 _No, not negative. Just cautious. Positivity, remember?_

"Wait!" Lennox calls after her. He can see Eliora facepalm out of the corner of his eye. He ignores her.

Terra turns around, her long hair flipping around with her.

"Where are you going?" Lennox asks.

"Away," she mutters, looking at the ground again.

"Why?"

"You remind me of someone. Someone I don't want to remember."

"Who?" Lennox blurts curiously just as she's about to leave again.

Something in her seems to change, and she opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Terra looks up at him and for the second time, their eyes meet.

"Lennox, right?"

He nods.

"I know this question uh – it might be a little awkward since we just met and I kind of just tried to run away from you, but do you want to be my ally?"

Eliora seems to spring into action as soon as the word ally escapes her mouth, but this time, Lennox is ready for it. Before she's able to say no, Lennox cuts her off.

"Yes," he replies with a smile, overpowering Eliora's stagnant frown.

He sees the District Seven girl smile slightly just as Eliora yanks his arm and twists him around.

"What are you thinking?" she yells angrily.

"She seems nice."

"One-word answers are nice?" Eliora hisses, glaring at Terra out of the corner of her eye. "She seems like a thoroughbred murder to me!"

He forces a smile. "Why don't we just give her a chance?"

"It only takes one chance for her to kill us! Lennox, please, I'm the only one here you can trust."

He growls. _She's so hard to deal with_. It's like he's talking to a wall that spits back the same phrase no matter what argument he uses. He feels the anger bubbling inside him again, fuming out of his nose. This time, he's not able to control it.

He hurls his knife at the ground angrily, clashing against the floor with a loud bang. Both the girls jump back in surprise as it bounces off the floor and falls again.

"You're so damn annoying!" he screeches, and now other tributes are looking their way, their eyes wide with curiosity. "This person's a murderer, that person's a murderer, but you know what Eliora? We're all going to be fucking murders in two days so suck it up! You're a paranoid freak, and maybe you should be the one I'm afraid to ally with!"

It only takes him a moment to realize he snapped, but by that time, all eyes in the room are on him. His district partner's face goes pale as snow, and she slinks back, suddenly looking a lot smaller then she was a moment ago. Terra's just blinking at him like he has two heads, frozen in place. Other tributes are looking on, particularly the District Six boy, a wide smile on his face.

Now it's his face that goes white.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," he mutters to Eliora, his eyes wide with fear of the darkness within him that just surfaced. "I don't know what overcame me."

Yet, he does. He knows the ugly monster that just surfaced better than the back of his own hand. When he was six, a cat scratched his sister. A few moments later, the cat was dead. A few years later he broke his classmate's ribs for stealing his favorite action figure. And even last year he punched his girlfriend in the face for telling him she cheated. Good thing he didn't hurt anyone this time.

Maybe Eliora isn't the monster he should be fearing. Maybe it's him.

"It's fine," she whispers softly, her voice barely audible. She looks like she just witnessed a murder.

Turning to Terra, he flashes her an extremely forced and awkward smile.

"So, uh - welcome to the alliance?"

* * *

 _Solomon Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Male._

* * *

Her sister's eyes are wide as she watches the District Nine boy explode and throw his knife against the ground.

"Well, since I'm attempting to be more positive in this sucky situation, I'm extremely thankful he's not our ally."

Luna nods mutely, her eyes wide with fear. The two of them turn back to the first aid station, where he and his sister are currently learning how to put a splint on a broken leg and stitch up a wound. Luna is proving to be much better at it then he is, weaving in and out of the dummy's skin with an ample amount of grace. When he tries his hand is shaking so much he can't even hold the needle properly. His pounding headache isn't making it even better, even with all the Capitol painkillers he's been shoving in his mouth the past few days.

His sister seems to notice this too, for a minute later she places a soft hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay Sol," she whispers, her voice no louder than that of a mouse. It's comforting though – a familiar in a room full of mysteries. "It'll be over soon. Keep training, it'll take your mind off it."

She's referring to the morphling withdrawal symptoms that he's been experiencing ever since he promised to stop. It's been a hard few days and he's barely been able to sleep at night, but he's getting by. The small box full of pills still jangles in his pocket every time he walks though, a constant reminder of the escape that's just seconds away.

 _No, you need to do this for Luna,_ he tells himself silently, looking over at her as she finishes up the stitches. _You need to get her out._

It'll be easier going through withdrawal now rather in the arena, which is one of the only things keeping him from reaching into his pocket and shoving the pills down his throat.

Solomon grumbles to himself, then continues to try to hopelessly stitch up the arm. Luna's already done and is beginning to work on the splint, and the trainer standing above them is nodding his head in approval. Solomon then tries to focus, but he's finding that it's rather hard, and his eyes keep wandering over to the District Six boy standing a few feet away. He has this sinking feeling that the boy is watching their every movement, their every breath.

It might just be paranoia, but he doesn't think so.

Looking back down at the fake arm, he completes two more stitches despite his shaking hand and then the lunch bell rings. Luna smiles at him and they walk into the room silently, piling their plates high with food and sitting down at a table as far from the other tributes as possible.

All except one. It's the same boy who'd been watching them during training, sitting at the far opposite end of the table.

There's no doubt he's looking at them.

Luna seems to notice too because she keeps looking over at him as they eat.

"He looks lonely," she finally murmurs after a while.

"He's deaf, of course he's lonely. He can't talk to anyone."

"Maybe we should invite him to sit with us," she suggests, giving Solomon a weak smile.

"No," he replies harshly.

She blinks at him. "Why not? It's not going to do us any harm."

"He's been giving me bad vibes all day."

Luna giggles. " _Everyone_ gives you bad vibes, Sol. And I'm not saying we ally with him. I'm just saying we talk to him."

Solomon rolls his eyes, then finally gives in. He's trying to be nicer before he dies, because he's heard some tributes whisper about this thing called hell, and from what they've described it as, he definitely doesn't want to go there. It doesn't mean he's going to like it though. "Fine, but you're going to be the one doing all the talking."

The two of them stand up, taking their trays and sitting next to the boy.

He looks surprised when they walk over, thought Solomon can't see his eyes through his thick black shades.

"Hi, I'm Luna," his sister whispers softly, giving him a friendly wave.

"He can't hear you, remember?" Solomon growls in annoyance, suddenly feeling very irritated.

The boy waves back though, and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a notepad. Flipping through the pages, he gets to the middle of the book and rips two out. He passes the white slips over and then hands them two pencils, both of which say _Tribute Training Center_ inscribed on the side in blocky letters. After, he rips one out for himself and takes a pen, then writes down the word _hello_ in a messy scribble.

 _Nice to meet you! What's your name_? Luna writes in neat, cursive handwriting.

 _Tyrell._

His sister smiles.

 _That's a nice name. Mine's Luna._

Solomon doesn't bother to write on his paper at all, just glaring at the boy as he spoons food into his mouth instead. He wishes he could see Tyrell's eyes, but they're hidden behind thick black shades. Maybe he can't see either.

 _I'm deaf_ , he writes.

 _I know._ Luna writes back. _It's okay, I don't care. We don't talk much anyway, so it's perfect._

Tyrell smiles at her. "I talk."

Solomon almost falls out of his chair when the boy speaks he's so surprised. If he can talk, Solomon wonders what other secrets he's hiding. He doesn't trust this boy for a single second.

 _That's cool. If you don't mind me asking, where did you learn how to speak if you can't hear?_

 _I heard once._

 _When?_

 _Ten,_ is all the boy writes, blunt and to the point.

 _Why can't you hear anymore?_

 _Sick._

Luna nods then decides not to talk – or rather write – about it anymore.

 _Want to play a game?_

Tyrell smiles.

Luna draws a tic-tac-toe board on the paper, and Solomon rolls his eyes. She shouldn't be thinking about little games at a time like this. They should eat as fast as they can so they can get back to training, so they can get Luna out alive.

Tyrell wins all four games handily, and Solomon can't quite figure out if his sister let him win or if he actually won. If the latter is the case, that's another reason not to trust the boy. He's smart and a good strategist.

"We should get back to training now," Solomon says, hints of annoyance tainting his voice.

His sister nods silently, then writes goodbye on the piece of paper. He waves to her as she gets up to put her tray away. Solomon takes this moment to write what he's been thinking this whole time on the paper Tyrell gave him.

 _If you even think about hurting her, I'll kill you myself._

He slips it to the boy with a grin. Tyrell reads it, then does something even more unexpected than anything else he's done all day.

He takes off his shades, revealing a dark pair of cold, calculating eyes. Then, he winks.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** And we're done with training! One less POV this time around because there was one person I had some trouble writing, which is fine, so I just decided to move their POV to a later chapter._

 _Super pumped to be at private sessions! They'll work a little differently this time, and we'll be seeing everyone, so expect it to be long. No score reveal either, I'll just post them at the end of the chapter. There's no Lux this time to make snarky comments so I don't really feel like writing someone watching them this time around, haha. And after that will be the interviews, where 10 tributes will get featured, and then we have the night before and the morning of. And then we're at the bloodbath! Woah! Seems too soon still._

 _And the alliances after training are (still subject to change):_

 _Clay, Valentine, Hana, Archer_

 _Skylar, Freyja, Coral, Beckett, Braxton_

 _Luna, Solomon_

 _Winnifred, Takei, Manisha_

 _Terra, Lennox, Eliora_

 _Loners: Pilate, Tyrell, Bruno, Gareth, Marguerite, Mortimer, North_

 _Tell me what you think of the alliances, and see you next time for private sessions!_

 _paper :)_


	23. Private Sessions: An Official Report

_Private Sessions Report: An Official Document_

* * *

 **PRIVATE SESSIONS REPORT**

 **OFFICIAL DOCUMENT OF THE CAPITOL**

 **INFORMATION COMPILED BY HEAD GAMEMAKER, SICARIUS VALENS.**

 **EDITED BY ASSISTANT GAMEMAKER OCTAVIA FAUNA AND FLAVIAN BORRUS.**

 **TO BE IMMEDIATELY DELIVERED TO THE DESKS OF PRESIDENT HERON AND ANNOUNCER GIOVANNI NUNTIUS.**

 **NOVEMBER 16TH, 12 P.D.D.**

* * *

DISTRICT ONE MALE

NAME: CLAY WOLFE

AGE: 18

DISTRICT: 1

SKILLS SHOWN: SWORDS, SHELTER BUILDING, AND EXPLOSIVES.

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: First, Clay displayed his impressive skills with a sword, sparring with the hardest trainer and winning handily. After that he did something rather unexpected for a career, making his way over to the shelter station and beginning to build one out of wood, rope, and a plastic bag. It was decent, and probably would keep him dry during a light drizzle, but anything more and he'd be soaked. Then, he began to grab random materials including gunpowder and twine, building a bomb. Everyone, including me, was surprised as he wrote "Pilate's Home" on the plastic bag with a marker he brought in. A second later, he detonated the bomb, and the small shelter blew into a million tiny pieces. He then laughed and left without another word.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: He seems to be very mentally stable and seems to be rather social, getting along well with his fellow careers. However, something strange happened in training when he was sparing, and he seemed to suddenly grow very tired as if he hadn't slept in days. He may have narcolepsy, though we need to look further into it to determine for sure. Expect a report within the next few hours. Usual career-like willingness to kill and seems to have the drive to win.

ODDS: 7-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 6th

NOTES: "Golden Boy" has a bit of a dark side. Blowing up Pilate's home was a little psychotic, but I like that. Maybe we can get him to show that side of him in the arena, and he'll definitely be one to make things interesting. Giving him an eleven for creativeness, and hopefully, this praise will encourage him to act like this in the arena and put on a good show.

SCORE: 11

* * *

DISTRICT ONE FEMALE

NAME: VALENTINE HOLLOWAY

AGE: 16

DISTRICT: 1

SKILLS SHOWN: CAT CLAWS AND BOW AND ARROW

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Valentine headed straight to the cat claws, her weapon of choice. She then proceeded to spar with a medium-hard level trainer, beating him with ease. She gave him a couple of scratches along the way, too. After she proceeded to go over to the shooting range and displayed her skills with a bow and arrow, which were decent. She shot four arrows, one hitting the bullseye, two hitting the target, and the fourth not even hitting the target at all.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: She seems very desperate for attention, looking at the cameras every chance she gets. Has a definite willingness to stretch her limits to further herself. Also, she seems slightly insecure. Otherwise, she seems stable.

ODDS: 6-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 3rd

NOTES: Cat claws are a bit strange, but she can definitely do some damage with them, so I'll be making sure they're in the cornucopia. Like I've mentioned before, she seems very desperate for attention and acceptance, so we can use that to our advantage.

SCORE: 8

* * *

DISTRICT TWO MALE

NAME: PILATE ANTONI

AGE: 18

DISTRICT: 2

SKILLS SHOWN: SWORDS

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Upon entering the training room, Pilate immediately headed over to the holographic dummies, where he completely annihilated them with his sword skills. It only took him a matter of seconds to damage the dummies enough to kill them, and it only took him three minutes and five seconds to complete the course. He decided not to use the rest of his fifteen minutes of allotted time and left as soon as he was done killing all the dummies.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Pilate is probably the most unstable of the careers and seems to have alienated himself from the pack. During training, he proved himself to be quite aggressive and manipulative, and sources say that his home life back in Two wasn't great, leading him to have some extreme trust and confidence issues. It looks like he'll do anything to win, and what we've seen so far has only confirmed our suspicions. Better-than-average drive to kill.

ODDS: 4-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 2nd

NOTES: Crazy good skill-wise, but he's already made many enemies. Would have been given first place selected placement if he was nicer and didn't alienate himself from the other careers and make enemies so quickly.

SCORE: 10

* * *

DISTRICT TWO FEMALE

NAME: HANA MARKO

AGE: 18

DISTRICT: 2

SKILLS SHOWN: NAGINATA AND AGILITY

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Hana's weapon of choice is the Naginata, a rather odd choice like Valentine's weapon, yet, she proved to be rather adept at it. She spared with the highest-level trainer and used her tall and lanky frame to her advantage, winning not just because of her weaponry skill, but rather her uncanny ability to read, predict, and react to her opponent's next move. She seems like quite the strategist. After that, she moved onto our agility course and flew through it with ease.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Hana seems very willing to kill and highly-driven to win, and the most emotionally stable of the careers.

ODDS: 3-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 1st

NOTES: Apparently is an excellent games strategist and a Hunger Games "junkie". Asked to shake my hand because she claims it's her dream to meet me in person. She told me she's seen every second of every Hunger Games ever, which is quite impressive.

SCORE: 9

* * *

DISTRICT THREE MALE

NAME: SKYLAR BAXTER

AGE: 17

DISTRICT: 3

SKILLS SHOWN: KNIVES, FIRE MAKING, MEDICINE, EDIBLE PLANTS, EDIBLE INSECTS, AND AGILITY

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Skylar made quick use of his time, showing as many skills as he could in the allotted fifteen minutes. Unlike any of the other tributes so far, he took all the time given to him and had to be dismissed because he wasn't leaving. First, he went to the knives station, where he spared against a medium-level trainer and lost. After that, he headed over to the fire-making station where he made a fire that went out quickly. Next, he moved onto the medicine station where he determined what plants could be used as herbal remedies and which ones couldn't. He later made his way over to the edible plants' test, where he got a mediocre 63%. He also took the edible insects test, where he only scored 40%. Finally, he went to the agility station and bounced on the course around until he was dismissed. None of his skills were really exemplary, but he seemed to be decent enough at everything he tried, not completely failing or succeeding at any one thing.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Sky seems to be quite lazy and has been rather sheltered and isolated his entire life which resulted in minor social anxiety.

ODDS: 23-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 10th

NOTES: He truly is the jack of all trades, showcasing almost every skill he practiced during training. Apparently also is a moderately famous video game player in the Capitol, and he's from here too. It might help him gain sponsorships.

SCORE: 5

* * *

DISTRICT THREE FEMALE

NAME: FREYJA ABBOTT

AGE: 18

DISTRICT: 3

SKILLS SHOWN: SPEARS AND HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Freyja came into the room and gave us a big, charming smile before showcasing her skills. First, she went to the spears station and hurled the long-ranged weapons at the targets, hitting the bullseye and first few rings around it the majority of the time. After a few minutes, she moves onto the hand-to-hand combat station and chooses a hard level trainer to fight, losing narrowly after a hard-fought match.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: She has a slightly inflated ego displayed in her choice of the trainer and attempt to join the career pack.

ODDS: 10-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 4th

NOTES: Extremely charismatic and a great smooth talker, she's the leader of her alliance and should excel during the interviews. Will probably have the most sponsors based on her social skills. Apparently "trained" with her father for years prior. It shows.

SCORE: 7

* * *

DISTRICT FOUR MALE

NAME: ARCHER CASPIAN

AGE: 18

DISTRICT: 4

SKILLS SHOWN: THROWING KNIVES AND AGILITY

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Archer looked a bit nervous upon entering the room, quickly making his way over to the throwing knives station without bothering to look at us. Utilizing the moving targets, he seemed to be rather skilled with his weapon of choice, the throwing knives. He hit the targets about 7/10th of the time, decent for the level of difficulty he set the moving targets to. After showing us his weapon skills, he worked his way over to the agility station for the final five minutes, climbing and swimming like it's second nature to him.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Archie seems to be quite reckless and impulsive, which is strange for someone with confidence issues. He appears rather convinced he's not going to win the games, and his drive to kill isn't as high as some of the other careers.

ODDS: 6-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 5th

NOTES: Man up and stop drinking – yes, we've been watching. He shouldn't have volunteered if he didn't think he was going to win.

SCORE: 8

* * *

DISTRICT FOUR FEMALE

NAME: CORALINE SEATON

AGE: 17

DISTRICT: 4

SKILLS SHOWN: MACHETE AND SPEARS

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Coraline, like many of the tributes so far, used the holographic dummies to her advantage, grabbing a machete and gutting the bodies almost as if they were fish. However, she tripped in the middle of the course, losing her balance as she was whipping herself around to defend herself from a holographic knife sailing her way. She leaped right back up to her feet though and finished the simulation flawlessly after that. In the last few minutes of her session, she headed over to the targets and hurled a few spears with mediocre accuracy, though they flew fast, showcasing her strength well. With a little more practice, she could be a real force to be reckoned with.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Clean.

ODDS: 11-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 8th

NOTES: Coraline seems slightly immature for her age.

SCORE: 7

* * *

DISTRICT FIVE MALE

NAME: SOLOMON NGUYEN

AGE: 17

DISTRICT: 5

SKILLS SHOWN: CLIMBING

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Solomon had a terrible private session, one of the worst I've ever seen. Skipping over all the weapons, he attempted to climb our ropes course but fell several times. He only made it to the halfway point once and tumbled down to the ground only a mere two feet after reaching that point. It hurt my and many of the other gamemakers' eyes to watch.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Solomon is probably the least stable of our tributes, suffering from severe depression and anxiety. He is also addicted to morphling, and while he's trying to get off of it, old habits die hard. He always seems to be very irritated and is completely unfriendly to everyone except his sister. He's also suicidal.

ODDS: 80-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 23rd

NOTES: His morphling withdrawal was probably one of the reasons for his poor performance, but even still, he seemed very weak. He also scowled at us multiple times and didn't look happy for even one moment during the entire training process. He's not going to gain any sponsors with that attitude, even if people pity him because his sister's here with him.

SCORE: 2

* * *

DISTRICT FIVE FEMALE

NAME: LUNA NGUYEN

AGE: 17

DISTRICT: 5

SKILLS SHOWN: KNIFE THROWING

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: The only skill Luna showed us was knife throwing, which frankly, wasn't that impressive. She showcased it for all fifteen minutes of the session, and even with that much time, only hit the target 6 or 7 times out of 40 or so knives thrown. Yet, despite her poor performance, she managed to smile at the end of it all. I'll give her an extra point for her resiliency.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Insanely optimistic, maybe even to the point where she's in denial. It's most likely a coping mechanism she's developed to deal with her brother throughout her life.

ODDS: 60-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 17th

NOTES: Extremely optimistic, and somehow believes that if she and her brother get to the final two, they'll both win. I'm slightly tempted to rig it so I can see the expression on her face when she realizes she has to kill her brother, but I won't. I don't know if I myself can survive watching her blind optimism for 2+ weeks.

SCORE: 4

* * *

DISTRICT SIX MALE

NAME: TYRELL TAIKO

AGE: 15

DISTRICT: 6

SKILLS SHOWN: TRAPS, CAMOUFLAGE, AND ARCHERY

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Upon entering the assessment room, Tyrell took off his shades, and for a rare moment, we got to see his eyes. They looked cold and calculating and were darting each and every way. After he raises his hand and began to sign to us, a reminder that he was deaf. Soon after he headed over to the traps station, rigging up a snare rather well. After he attempted camouflage, but in all honesty, his artistic skills weren't that amazing and his arm ended up looking more like a brown clump then tree bark. In his last few minutes, he utilized the archery station. He didn't even hit the target once, but the arrow did go somewhere, so we assume he's not completely clueless with the weapon.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Sources tell us he's suffered from depression for the second half of his life, though lately, it hasn't been as much of an issue.

ODDS: 100-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 24th

NOTES: I almost feel bad for the kid, because by the way he was watching people in training, he looked extremely intelligent and observant. Almost. Maybe if he wasn't lacking one of his major senses, he could be a real contender for the crown. Too bad though.

SCORE: 4

* * *

DISTRICT SIX FEMALE

NAME: WINNIFRED ELLISON

AGE: 16

DISTRICT: 6

SKILLS SHOWN: STRENGTH, AXES, AND HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Winnifred moves fast through the various stations she showcased, only spending a minute or two at the strength station in the beginning. She lifted a 100-lb weight, impressive for someone of her small size and thin stature. After, she headed over to the axes station where she threw four at the targets, the first two hitting. The third one was close, while the fourth sailed feet above the target. She smiled bashfully after this, then decided she was done and moved onto the hand-to-hand-combat station. She picked a medium level trainer and won with ease, disarming him within the first minute. She sparred with him again and again until her session was over, winning every time.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Similar to Archer, Winnifred seems to be quite careless and impulsive and doesn't think about things before she does them.

ODDS: 20-1.

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 11th

NOTES: She fights dirty and wasn't afraid to knee the trainer in the you-know-where twice. If she can think with her brain more, she might be a real contender to win.

SCORE: 6

* * *

DISTRICT SEVEN MALE

NAME: BRUNO MULLER

AGE: 13

DISTRICT: 7

SKILLS SHOWN: SWORDS AND STRENGTH

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Bruno was probably the biggest surprise of these year's games so far. He walked in with a cocky aura and immediately headed over to the swords station, which surprised me and many other gamemakers. Usually, the younger tributes shy away from the weapons, but not him. His skills with the sword were almost as good as a career's, and he got through the holographic dummy course with little collateral damage. For the second half of his session, he lifted weights, increasing in heaviness as the minutes ticked on. By the end, he was lifting 140 lbs.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Very messy and unorganized, and still seems to think girls have cooties. Immature.

ODDS: 14-1.

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 9th

NOTES: He told us a joke during the private session, which was actually pretty funny. He seems like a good, humorous kid, which will make his death even sweeter for me. I have a feeling he's going to ace the interviews.

SCORE: 7

* * *

DISTRICT SEVEN FEMALE

NAME: TERRA MCINTOSH

AGE: 18

DISTRICT: 7

SKILLS SHOWN: AXES

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Terra attempted to throw axes at our moving targets, missing about 75% of the time. I couldn't tell if she just as a resting grumpy face or was upset, because after only five minutes, she sighed, put down the axes, and left the room. I was looking forward to a bit more for her and she was certainly a bit of a letdown, especially considering how strong her district partner turned out to be.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: We discovered that Terra was a mother two years ago, but she isn't anymore. Despite digging through countless files and asking close sources, no one seemed to know how the baby died. However, she still holds an immense amount of regret for not caring for her child better and apparently is extremely envious of her older brother who still does have children.

ODDS: 45-1.

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 15th

NOTES: We need to figure out how that baby died. Get Giovanni to prod her about it during her interviews.

SCORE: 4

* * *

DISTRICT EIGHT MALE

NAME: GARETH EMORY

AGE: 18

DISTRICT: 8

SKILLS SHOWN: EDIBLE PLANTS AND FIRE MAKING

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Gareth was quite adept at the few skills he showed us, yet we wish he showcased a few more useful skills, such as weaponry or strength. He first went over to the edible plants' station and scored a 100% on the test. He flew through it also, completing it in record time. After that, he headed to the fire making station and constructed a log-cabin-type fire, building it rather fast as well.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Suffers from extreme thanatophobia (fear of death) and is a nervous wreck most of the time. He's always fearful and always needs to know all his surroundings, and as a result, has an equally extreme fear of the dark.

ODDS: 55-1.

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 18th

NOTES: During training, he seemed to stay as far from the weapons stations as possible. We wonder if he's afraid to use them for fear of hurting himself in the process, and if that's the case, he's not going to get anywhere in the games.

SCORE: 5

* * *

DISTRICT EIGHT FEMALE

NAME: BECKETT LOCK

AGE: 14

DISTRICT: 8

SKILLS SHOWN: MEMORY AND BOW AND ARROW

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Beckett first showcased her skills with the bow and arrow, doing rather well for just learning it. She had excellent form and with a bit more practice, could be a real threat in the arena. After she headed over to the puzzle station and completely a memory game until the time ended.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Very insecure.

ODDS: 30-1.

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 12th

NOTES: Beckett hasn't really talked at all during training, though has seemed to secure a nice spot for herself in the majority alliance. Her lack of talking either makes us think she's really shy and socially anxious or has something to hide. Or both. I wonder what secrets are hiding in her, and maybe if we can get her to talk during the interviews, we can get some of them out.

SCORE: 6

* * *

DISTRICT NINE MALE

NAME: LENNOX ORSENI

AGE: 15

DISTRICT: 9

SKILLS SHOWN: KNIVES

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: During his session, Lennox toyed with a knife, trying pretty hopelessly to cut a dummy to pieces. He did so after a while – a long while – but I admire his determination. In the process, he somehow managed to cut his arm, and one of our medical staff had to bandage him up in the middle of the session, sucking about 10 minutes from his time. He probably would have attempted something else, but the buzzer rang just as he was putting his knife away.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Has a fiery temper, already shown in his outburst on the final day of training. On the outside, he seems to be very sunny and exuberant, but on the inside, he's anything but. Has been known to have violent outbursts from time-to-time.

ODDS: 45-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 20th

NOTES: When asked, his mother described him as a "sugary-sweet powder keg". Yikes.

SCORE: 3

* * *

DISTRICT NINE FEMALE

NAME: ELIORA ABRAHAM

AGE: 16

DISTRICT: 9

SKILLS SHOWN: SICKLE, FIRE MAKING, AND CLIMBING

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Like her district partner, Eliora wasn't extremely good at her weapon of choice, though did show us that in an emergency, she could use it if she had to. She tried the dummy course but stopped halfway through. Later, she attempted to make a fire. She had all the right techniques, but the fire failed to start, and she started to panic, then dropped everything she was doing and for the last few minutes climbed on the rock wall. That was the one and only highlight of her session: she was fast. However, that's about it with this girl.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Eliora suffers from borderline personality disorder and is extremely irritable and suffers from mood swings that seem to change on the dime. At times, she's convinced that the world hates her. She also self-harms and our cameras picked up faint scars on her wrists. She is also extremely clingy and has a short temper, much like Lennox, though isn't sweet about it like him.

ODDS: 45-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 21st

NOTES: Her and Lennox are perfect for each other: crazy and crazier. Good luck to their alliance, because they're going to need it. I predict someone's going to get irritated and kill the other impulsively, but at this point, it could be either of them that breaks first.

SCORE: 4

* * *

DISTRICT TEN MALE

NAME: BRAXTON BUSBEE

AGE: 16

DISTRICT: 10

SKILLS SHOWN: MACHETE

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Braxton was amazing with the machete, which was a nice surprise to all of us, as he didn't even use it during training. We assume that he was hiding his skills because he was excellent with it and if he showed it off, the careers probably would have made him one of their first targets. He's a butcher though, so it wasn't too much of a surprise. He spent his entire session running through the holographic dummy course again and again. He made it through almost flawlessly every time. In addition, he seemed to be very fast and agile.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Had a hard home life and ran away less than a year ago but seems to regret it. He's also rather flighty and has trouble sticking with things.

ODDS: 8-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 7th

NOTES: Declared to his alliance that "slicing up a person was way different from chopping up a pig." We'll see if he's hesitant to kill during the games, but from that quote, it seems rather likely.

SCORE: 8

* * *

DISTRICT TEN FEMALE

NAME: MARGUERITE THORNE

AGE: 12

DISTRICT: 10

SKILLS SHOWN: POISONS AND AGILITY

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Marguerite spent about 10 minutes making a poison out of various plants, which turned out to be highly dangerous after she tested it in our small testing chamber. The skin of the dummy that ingested it swelled greatly and little red bumps began to form all over their skin. After, Marguerite flew through the obstacle course, her small and lanky body aiding her well. She did have a bit of trouble climbing though, but her quickness and speed made up for it.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Marguerite seems to have a somewhat off moral compass and doesn't really seem to know the difference between bad and good. This may be attributed to having no parental figure in her life, since both her parents died when she was three. After that, she lived in one of our community homes and never really bonded with anyone there.

ODDS: 42-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 16th

NOTES: My favorite moment of the pregames so far has to be hands down when she spit in Pilate's face. Very gutsy and even more humorous.

SCORE: 6

* * *

DISTRICT ELEVEN MALE

NAME: TAKEI SADEH

AGE: 17

DISTRICT: 11

SKILLS SHOWN: AXES, EDIBLE PLANTS AND FIRST AID

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Takei was decent at everything he attempted, but not spectacular at any one thing. Like Skylar, he took the jack-of-all-trades route and tried to show us as much as possible during his session. First, he threw axes at the moving targets, missing about half the time. After he took the edible plants test, earning himself an average 70%. Lastly, he attempted to stitch up an arm, only getting halfway through before the time buzzer sounded and he was asked to leave.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Takei is VERY VERY sheltered and lived in a sub-community of Eleven where he wasn't really allowed to leave. We don't know much about it, but it was certainly different from normal life in Eleven. While it didn't place any visible trauma on him, he seems to have a slightly skewed perception of how the world works.

ODDS: 35-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 13th

NOTES: One of his allies calls him "cult boy", which I find is rather funny.

SCORE: 5

* * *

DISTRICT ELEVEN FEMALE

NAME: MANISHA ROLLINS

AGE: 15

DISTRICT: 11

SKILLS SHOWN: ELECTRONICS? AND CAMOUFLAGE

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: In her private session, Manisha did something rather unconservative, rewiring the main light in the room so that it flashed different patterns. It was actually rather cool, and she gave different words and phrases in Morse code, such as "hello" and "how are you doing?". For the final few minutes of her session, Manisha painted her hand to look like a leaf. It was okay – she's certainly no artist, but it didn't look completely horrendous either.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Manisha has been bullied at school, which has caused major insecurities and she now lacks a sense of self-worth.

ODDS: 35-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 22nd

NOTES: Manisha has been shy her entire time in the Capitol and will probably have a hard time coming out of her shell. The interviews will be challenging for her. However, she did manage to secure herself two allies, which I find impressive for someone who likes to talk in Morse code rather than with her voice.

SCORE: 5

* * *

DISTRICT TWELVE MALE

NAME: MORTIMER MAXIMUS

AGE: 16

DISTRICT: 12

SKILLS SHOWN: BOW AND ARROW

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: Mortimer had one of the worst private sessions of the group, though I expected it coming from a District Twelve tribute. The only thing he attempted his entire session was the bow and arrow, and he missed every time, and sometimes he couldn't even get the bow and arrow to shoot.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: His father was neglectful of him, causing some emotional trauma. He's also been in his younger sister's shadow his entire life, but that doesn't seem to affect him that much.

ODDS: 65-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 14th

NOTES: Mortimer seemed to be more skilled during training when we watched him, his survival skills above par. It's a bit odd he showcased something he didn't even practice. We think he might be trying to downplay his skills so he's not targeted.

SCORE: 3

* * *

DISTRICT ELEVEN FEMALE

NAME: NORTH BRIER

AGE: 14

DISTRICT: 12

SKILLS SHOWN: FIRE MAKING, HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT, CLIMBING

ASSESSMENT OF SKILLS: First, North built a fire out of various woods and tinders, and it seemed like second nature to her as she constructed it. My guess is she's done this numerous time, and now is no different. After she sparred with a medium-level trainer, losing narrowly after a hard-fought battle. Finally, she showcased her climbing skills, scurry up a rope so quickly she looked like a squirrel. It certainly wasn't graceful, but it worked and got her there.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: North seems incredibly optimistic for someone whose mother overdosed when she was seven and who has been living on the streets ever since. She doesn't seem to harbor any signs of emotional or physical trauma, and her blind optimism is probably a coping mechanism to help her process everything that's happened in her life.

ODDS: 50-1

PREDICTED PLACEMENT: 19th

NOTES: During the chariot rides and interviews, North showed herself to be incredibly seductive, which is slightly disturbing given her young age. However, a different, softer side seems to come out when she's around her district partner. If they weren't in the Hunger Games together, I'd think it was kind of cute.

SCORE: 4

* * *

FINAL SCORE REPORT:

0:

1:

2: Solomon

3: Lennox, Mortimer

4: Luna, Tyrell, Terra, Eliora, North

5: Skylar, Gareth, Takei, Manisha

6: Winnifred, Beckett, Marguerite

7: Freyja, Coraline, Bruno

8: Valentine, Archer, Braxton

9: Hana

10: Pilate

11: Clay

12:

* * *

 **A/N:** _Before I start rambling as usual, I want to give credit to CelticGames4 and tracelynn for this format! Their stories are awesome, and if you haven't, you should go check them out :)_

 _This took me so long to write, I think it was just tedious after a while, and sorry if they kind of lost their quality by the end, but I was losing a bit of steam. However, I hope you like this format; I wanted to switch it up because in Crimson, we only got the scores and not what happened in them, so I thought I'd give you more description! And I did change some of the scores you gave me (I should really just leave that out of the form next time, honestly) but I think that relatively, everything was 1 or 2 points above or below what you asked, and I did stick to everything else you gave me here._

 _See you all for the interviews, where we'll have 10! POVs. I hated doing 24 last time, and if I do that, it'll mess up my 2 POV per tribute format that I'm doing, so they'll be a little longer and more detailed from the people we'll hear from. And they'll be some more drama too, hehehe_

 _See you all soon for the lights, the cameras, and the most certainly the action!_

 _paper :)_


	24. Interviews I: Change of Plans

_Interviews I: Change of Plans_

* * *

 _Freyja Abbott, 18._

 _District Three Female._

* * *

Gazing into the frosty mirror, it doesn't even cross her mind that it might be the last time she'll ever look this beautiful, dolled up in pearls and long, glittery dresses. She doesn't think glossy eyes and red blood is beautiful, that's for sure.

It doesn't really matter though, because she knows she'll be here again, weeks later, smiling for the cameras as they crown her the victor of the 12th Hunger Games. There's no doubt in her mind it'll be anyone else. She has it all, the skills, the charisma, the alliance, and soon – the sponsors. The careers will regret rejecting her, but once they're dead, they won't be able to regret anything at all.

Her face is powdered with a pink blush and radiant highlighter, and round pearls adorn her neck. She wears a sparkly floor-length evergreen dress that contrasts her curled red hair perfectly. Dark makeup – black and green, like her dress, ring around her eyes. She flashes herself a sparkly white smile and decides this is the prettiest she's ever been.

"You look stunning," her stylist says, but she doesn't need to be told it because she already knows.

"Thanks," she replies still, deciding that while the stylist only told her what she already knew, she should still be courteous. "You did a fabulous job."

The stylist smiles at her thankfully then hurries her out the door and into the hall filled with mingling tributes. A little clock on the wall says 10:12, which she guesses is the amount of time until the first interview begins. She joins her allies standing around Coral's door.

"Hey, Freyja!" Coral exclaims when she nears, flashing her a wide smile. The District Four girl looks equally as stunning as her, wearing a royal blue off-the-shoulder gown that reminded Freyja of the dark ocean waves. "We were just talking about bloodbath strategies. Want to join us?"

Freyja nods. "Sure. What were you guys thinking?"

"Sky came up with the idea," Coral continues, motioning to Freyja's district partner, who nods mutely as she talks, "he suggested we all storm the cornucopia and confuse whoever is in there. We can pick a meetup spot and go there once we've gotten the supplies. I think it's a brilliant idea since we're the biggest alliance and if we have as many supplies as possible, we'll be unstoppable for the rest of the games. Plus, since there's so many of us, there's a good chance the majority of us will make it out."

"But what about the ones that don't?" Beckett interjects, and everyone looks slightly surprised, as the shy District Eight girl normally doesn't even contribute one word to their conversations.

"We just have to hope that doesn't happen," Sky murmurs. "We have to think about the risk vs. reward here, and the reward definitely outplays the risk. If we run, we'll just be sitting ducks out there for the careers later in the games."

Beckett nods her head mutely, her eyes wide. She still doesn't look convinced.

Freyja turns toward her, placing a soft hand on her shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. You got a six in training, remember? That's better than most of the other tributes out there."

"But not _all_ of them."

"Well none of them are as brave as you," Coral says with a warm smile.

"As brave as me?" Beckett gawks, her eyes going even wider.

"Yeah! Just look at you!" The District Four girl exclaims. "Your short hair is badass! No other girl I know would even dare cut her hair that short let alone rock it like you do! And certainly, no other girl I know would not wear a dress during the interviews! You look so awesome in that polo shirt!"

They all laugh, and Beckett manages to curve her lips into a rare smile.

"Thanks, guys."

"No problem," Coral giggles, then turns to the group. "So, how's everyone feeling about the plan now?"

"Great!" they chorus in unison, and out of the corner of her eye, Freyja notices the District Two boy approaching them. Coral seems to notice too, for she places her two fingers on her nose and pinches it lightly.

"Freyja, do you smell something weird? It kind of smells like low tide back at home."

Freyja suppresses a smile, playing along as Pilate walks within earshot. "Yeah, it smells a lot like loser."

"Yeah, sore loser," Braxton adds, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at Pilate.

The muscular District Two boy stops right in front of their small group, a scowl already plastered on his face. "Shut up."

"Yeah? And who's going to tell me, the boy who got kicked out of his own alliance?" Freyja asks, raising a suspicious brow at him. Braxton, Coral, and Sky all snicker.

Pilate growls. "Whatever, they're going to regret it anyway. Which is why I came here. I was wondering if you all wanted to join my alliance."

Sky scoffs. "Your alliance of one? Or should I say two? You and yourself?"

The District Two boy stiffens, then steps forward so he's only a foot away from the tall boy. However, Pilate's even taller, and unlike Sky, he actually has some muscle on his frame, not just skin and bones. He seems to tower over him despite the small differential in height, his shadow falling on Sky's lanky body.

"I wasn't talking to you, Capitol boy," he hisses, his tone sharp and cold. "My alliance is elite, and I'll only accept people who got 7s or higher. I play to win, not for second place. So Coral, Freyja or Braxton only."

Sky gulps, taking a step backward. A few feet away from him, Beckett lowers her head shamefully, and Coral just laughs loudly, her eyes rolling around and around in circles.

" _Me_? Join _you?_ " she scoffs, still laughing like a madman. "You really think that after all, you did to me, I'd come running back to you?"

Pilate blinks stoically. "If you want to be a winner, then yes."

"Fat chance," Coral spits, "I'd rather die than be in an alliance with your controlling, ass. Get out."

"I think that goes for any of us," Braxton adds, eyeing him. "We're loyal to each other, and we're actually nice people, unlike you. We're going to win by playing fair, not cheating and lying like you do. Our alliance is built on trust, and yours's would just be built on fear and guilt. I've heard what Coral said about you. You're nothing but a scared boy who went too far, alienated his own alliance, and is now desperate and scared. If you wanted Coral and Freyja in the first place, you would have let them in your alliance in the beginning. I for one don't like being a second thought or a backup option, and I'm sure all my allies don't want to be either. Let's go."

Pilate just grins. "Whatever. I play to win, and if you don't like it, then you don't have to be a winner. Freyja?"

Her allies begin to walk away, but she just stands there, staring at Pilate.

A small part of her thinks Pilate's right.

"Come on Freyja, this jerk isn't worth your time anyway," Sky murmurs, tugging on her arm. She doesn't move.

She's always wanted to be the best, and now, the best is here, practically begging for her to join him.

"Freyja," Coral repeats forcefully. "Let's go."

Can she really win with her alliance?

"Freyja."

She's by far the strongest, the wittiest, and the smartest out of all of them. Maybe they'll hold her back from her full potential.

"Come on."

Her father always told her if she wanted to be the best, she needed to be around the best.

"Freyja?"

He told her she should do anything it takes to win.

"Freyja!"

She didn't understand then, but she understands now.

"Freyja!"

She wants to win, and she'll do anything to get herself there.

"What's wrong with you?!"

Even ally with the devil himself.

"No," she says forcefully, and when the words come out of her mouth she realizes she doesn't even feel bad for betraying the people who just called her their friend.

"What?" Coral gawks, her eyes instantly widening.

"I said no."

Pilate raises a brow, intrigued. Behind him, Sky's shaking his head as if he's saying "once an Abbott, always an Abbott," under his breath.

"But you said you wanted revenge on him," Coral mutters, her voice barely audible it's so low.

Pilate laughs.

"I want to win more."

"I thought you were different," Sky murmurs as she walks away.

Well, he thought wrong.

All her life she's always thought she was different from her father; she's prided herself on never cheating, lying, or betraying others. Yet maybe in the end, when it comes down to it, they're the same after all.

Yet right now all that matters is that she's going to make it out of this hellhole alive. Her morals can wait until later. And she won't turn into Pilate's minion unlike what the careers almost were. She has a strong head on her shoulders and can make her own decisions. Pilate won't be able to control her. And if he does, she'll just kill him herself.

* * *

 _Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District One Female._

* * *

Her parents better be watching.

Of course, it's mandatory viewing all around Panem, but knowing her parents, they'll find an excuse to get out of it.

They'll probably claim they're too swamped with work to pay attention to her, but she knows that's a lie.

They can see her, she knows. She's not invisible or a ghost like her sister. They just don't want to.

But now, now – they don't have a choice.

She takes a deep breath as she walks onto the stage, her dark eyes instantly finding the cameras hidden in the stage instantly. They really didn't do a good job hiding them. Simply placing black duct tape over makes them just as visible as before, if not even more so.

Narrowing her eyes, she stares right into them for a split-second.

 _See me now?_

Then she looks up, smiling at the cheering crowd with pearly white teeth like that never happened. For them, she's all smiles; they want their sunny, pretty, flirty, cute District One girl, and she'll give it to them. She's always been good at giving people what they want, everyone except her parents that is.

When she wins, she hopes to hell it'll be enough.

"Hi Giovanni," she giggles, taking a seat in the chair beside him. As she lowers herself into the seat she lifts her lacey red ball gown up – maybe a little too far – but that's the point. She's planned every single move she'll make on this stage. "You look absolutely stunning tonight, as usual."

"Oh, you know I'm a sucker for flattery! You look even more ravishing, Mrs. Holloway," he chuckles, grabbing her hand and kissing it softly. "Could you tell me a bit about that lovely dress you're wearing?"

She nods her head demurely, making sure her pearly smile doesn't fade. "Well, it's red, isn't it?" she giggles softly.

Giovanni and the rest of the audience laugh. "We can see, but thank you for informing our blind viewers, I bet they appreciate it. So, Valentine, how are you liking the Capitol so far?"

"It's fabulous," she replies, batting her eyes at the camera behind the interviewer's head. She imagines herself staring right into her parents' eyes as she looks into the lens, "much better than District One."

Giovanni cocks his head to the side. "How so?"

"District One has some people I'd like to forget."

"Like your sister, Eve?"

She gulps, then looks down at the floor. She hasn't talked about her sister in years; her parents pretend like she never existed in the first place, and it was easier if she pretends, too. However, the story had made national headlines: an eleven-year-old girl goes for walk and doesn't come back, only to be found in a dumpster in an ally on the poorer side of town a week later, her body already rotting. It was a completely random murder, and the killer was never found. The Capitol knew, and unlike her and her parents, they didn't forget.

For a rare moment, silver-tongued Valentine finds that words just don't come out.

Giovanni seems to pick up on this, for he places a soft hand on her leg. "It's alright, we don't have to talk about her if you don't want to. We know it's hard to lose a sibling."

The audience nods in agreement, which is odd and a bit of a double standard – they kill siblings mercilessly every year.

Valentine shakes her head, then looks back up at the cameras. "No, no. I'll talk about her, it's alright. I don't want to forget about her. She shouldn't be forgotten about. No one should."

She eyes the camera extra hard when she says that last sentence.

"The killer is still out there," she continues, "and when I win, I'm going to use the money I get to find the killer and seek revenge on him once and for all. I don't want it to happen to anyone else because no other family should have to experience what mine did. I'll kill him myself if I have to, and justice will be repaid."

She can hear some _awhhs_ echo from the audience, and she smiles. While what she was saying had complete truth to it – she wanted to find her sister's killer more than anything else, the story might also gain her some sponsors. She felt a bit bad using her sister like that, but if it helped her to win, earn back her parents attention and find her sister's killer, it didn't matter.

"You have very noble attentions," Giovanni murmurs. "Unfortunately, though, your time is up. You and your sister's story have made a very memorable impression on us, and we'll be rooting for you every step of the way! May the odds be ever in your favor, Mrs. Holloway!"

She looks back at the camera – back at her parents - one more time, smiling wider then she has all night.

 _If I can help it, I won't let you forget about either of us. Ever._

* * *

 _Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Male._

* * *

"And let's give a golden welcome to our golden heartthrob from District One, Clay Wolfe!"

 _Golden. Golden. Golden._ These days, that's all people ever call him. _Golden_ welcome. _Golden_ heartthrob. _Golden_ boy. He got the _golden_ score too, didn't he?

 _11._ The best anyone's ever received. There's no way he can lose now, right?

Wrong.

Everyone expects him to win – to get the gold and to live up to his golden name. _But what if he doesn't? What if he ends up in silver? Bronze? Or what if he doesn't even place?_

He pushes all these thoughts into the back of his head as he makes his way onto the stage, smiling the golden smile every expects from him. He might have his doubts, but tonight, he's going to try to do everything he can to be golden, to be unflawed, to show them what they want to see: their perfect, pristine winner.

Only, he feels his eyes drooping as he slides into the seat, and knows that no matter how hard he tries, he'll always be flawed because of something he can't even control.

"Clay?"

Clay blinks, his mind instantly snapping back into focus.

"Sorry, what was that?"

The audience laughs, because apparently even when he messes up, they still think it's all part of his golden plan to charm them.

"I asked you how on earth did you ever manage to get the highest score recorded in the games to date, the almighty and mystical eleven? Everyone is just dying to know!"

The crowd roars again, clapping and hollering and screaming.

Clay grins, trying to ignore the sluggish feeling that beginning to descend upon his body. "If I told you, everyone would be getting elevens now, wouldn't they?"

Giovanni laughed. "I suppose that's true. But couldn't you just spare us one itsy-bitsy detail?"

"Please!" the audience choruses.

Clay stifles a yawn, slinking back into the now unusually comfortable chair. On the outside he looks completely calm – comfortable even – but on the inside, his emotions are racing; _what if he falls asleep in front of the whole country? What if he's exposed to everyone? What if they kick him out of the pack for real this time?_

"Are you alright Clay?" he hears Giovanni ask, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm fine!" he exclaims a bit too loudly. "So back to the question uh – I did something unusual to get that eleven, something daring, something that I bet has never been done before."

"Like?" Giovanni asks, his voice trailing off at the end as if he were waiting for Clay to finish his sentence.

Clay gulps as his eyelids begin to droop. He needs to end this now.

"Secrets are secrets for a reason, Giovanni," he replies mysteriously, then stands to his feet, exiting the stage abruptly. The audience looks a bit shocked – _did their golden boy just leave without being dismissed? Why didn't he finish his interview?_

Little do they know he has more secrets to hide then just how he earned his eleven.

As he exits the stage, Hana gives him a bit of a weird look as he passes her.

"It's part of the angle I was going for," he tells her, and she nods her head, though doesn't look completely convinced. "I want to be mysterious."

Behind her, Pilate just stares him down like he's public enemy number one. He imagines he's very envious of his higher score because if anyone likes being the top dog, it's Pilate.

He flashes him a devilish grin then keeps walking forward, though it's all an act. His eyelids are still drooping, and he needs to lay down somewhere fast. He exits the stage and finds a couch in the hallway, collapsing onto its soft, plushy surface. Then he closes his eyes and for a moment dozes off.

As he sleeps he dreams of golden statues and a golden crown, all of it just out of reach.

* * *

 _Luna Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Female._

* * *

"What's up with him?" her brother questions as the District One boy blasts by, looking as if he hadn't slept in nights.

She shrugs her shoulders, exchanging a confused glance with Tyrell before looking back up toward the stage. Something about the deaf boy has drawn her to him – she doesn't quite know what it is, and it's strange, because she doesn't trust people easily, but he just reminds her of her brother somehow. She can't put a finger on quite what that shared quality is though, but there's something about him that she wants to protect and nurture. On the other hand, Solomon hates him, but then again, Solomon hates everyone.

Hana's on the stage now, the tall career girl giggling with Giovanni. Luna wonders if she has been waiting her entire life for this moment and if she's born and bred to kill like they claim the District Two tributes are. She certainly doesn't look like a killer as she laughs loudly in her fluffy yellow dress, talking about her girlfriend and how much she loves her and will try her very best to get back to her, and that nothing, not even the games, can tear them apart.

It's sweet tribute, and Luna finds herself smiling. _She can't really be a bloodthirsty killer, right?_

But she's 100% sure Pilate is because all he talks about is how he'll do anything to win and that there are no limits to how far he'll go to get the crown. A shiver runs down her spine as he speaks, and she can't find a way to even think of one positive thing about him.

The District Three girl is charismatic, as always, and would seem to possibly be a better interviewer then Giovanni. She answers all his questions so well, and Luna's surprised to hear that after all the talk she overheard about how the alliance she created was going to be the best ever, she jumped ship to pair up with Pilate.

Her district partner is very logical in his answers and mostly talks about how he loves to play video games at home. Luna learns that he was born in the Capitol too, which is interesting. It'll probably help him gain sponsors, that's for sure.

Both District Four tributes are lively and confident as usual, but neither really stands out. The girl comes off as a bit tougher and feistier then Luna assumed she was, telling Giovanni that there were a few tributes here she wouldn't mind killing, but she wasn't going to name names. Everyone could guess Pilate was one of them.

"And let's welcome the first of our two lovely Nguyen twins, Luna, to the stage!"

She instantly freezes and her face goes white. She's always had a bit of stage fright and has never liked crowds or talking to people – especially people she doesn't know. Solomon gives her a light nudge and she stumbles onto the stage, looking awkwardly uncomfortable in her glittering silver ballgown.

"Come!" Giovanni beckons. "Take a seat!"

She does as he says, sinking into the chair beside him.

"So, Luna, you and your brother have stolen all of our hearts. Your story is just so heartbreaking and tear-jerking. I know many of us, including myself, I have to say, shed a tear or two when I saw your reaping. Did you know your brother was suicidal when he volunteered?"

"No, I didn't," she murmurs softly, her attempts at projecting her quiet voice unsuccessful.

"What was that? Sorry, you're going to have to speak up a little."

"I didn't," she repeats a bit louder.

"That's awful. He didn't even show any signs?"

Luna shakes her head. "He did, but I just missed them. He used to spend a lot of time in his room alone, just sitting in the dark. He went to therapy for his depression, and we all thought it was working, but I guess it wasn't. I wish I knew so I could have maybe stopped him."

"Don't blame yourself, you did everything you could. Do you two have a strategy for the arena?"

"We're just going to play it by ear, but I'm confident that either I or he will make it out alive. After all, our odds are 12-1 now, not 24-1!"

"That's certainly correct!" Giovanni exclaims with a smile. "Have you two added any allies to your alliance?"

"No. I think we're just going to do us two because we know a 100% we can trust each other. We don't know that with other tributes."

"That's a very valid point. Changing gears, have you two been enjoying everything the Capitol has to offer so far?"

Luna smiles. "It's been wonderful. The people have been nothing but welcoming, and your facilities are so much better than in District Five. I mean, you have soaps that you can choose the smell of with a click of a button! That's amazing! And not to mention the food's great too. Solomon is especially a fan of your pop tarts."

Giovanni laughs. "Pop tarts are good, I do have to admit."

"I like them too," Luna mutters.

"Unfortunately, our time is just about running out, so do you have anything else to say to your brother before he comes on stage?"

She nods. "I love you, Solomon, I just want you to know that. You're braver and stronger then you think, and your life is worth living, even if you don't think it is. Plenty of people care about you. Mom. Dad. Me. Our friends. They all love you, and you deserve to be loved. I believe in you."

Giovanni wipes a tear from his eye. "That's an amazing speech. You are such a good sister Luna, and I know many of us are rooting for you and your brother to have the happy ending you two so rightfully deserve. Am I right?"

The crowd roars and Luna smiles weakly. She knows she can do it. Her and Solomon can make it out alive. She believes it more than anything else in the entire world.

She has to because, without hope, they'd have nothing.

* * *

 _Tyrell Taiko, 15._

 _District Six Male._

* * *

Winnifred's an idiot, as usual. Of course, he can't hear what she's saying, but her body language tells him everything he needs to know.

She's overconfident, cocky and wild, and is probably talking about how she doesn't need a plan because she's so great and strong. BS. Everyone needs a plan, even if it's just an idea of one. Even her.

According to the vibrations ringing through his ears at the end of the interview, she receives a decent amount of applause, meaning that her interview, despite what he thinks of her, did go rather well.

He, of course, doesn't hear Giovanni announce his name, but the interpreter the Capitol lent to him for the interview signs to him that it's his turn to go onto the stage, and he has two and a half minutes to answer questions before the buzzer goes off and after that, he needs to exit through the left wing of the stage, the opposite way he came in.

He nods his head, then steps out into the almost blinding light of the stage. However, he has his shades on so he can still see, but he'd imagine for other tributes it'd probably be a shock. Tonight, he's wearing a black polo shirt and black dress pants, and with his shades, he decides that he looks a little bit like a spy.

Walking across the stage, he scans the audience. There are thousands of people with strangely color and styled hair in rows that stretch back as far as the eye can see. Also, he can see the various cameras positioned around the stage, soaking in every single second and angle of the action.

If there are this many of just the interviews alone, he wonders how many there will be in the games themselves, where the real action will be. This is only the appetizer.

Giovanni pats the seat beside him, and Tyrell sits in it. The interpreter stands beside him, his arms folded over his chest. He also wears a black suit to match Tyrell's.

 _Hello Tyrell. How are you?_ The interpreter signs, his hands moving quickly, and to the average person, it'd look almost like they were dancing.

 _Well, thank you. Or, well enough as a deaf person could be doing._ He signs back, much slower than the interpreter. He's still learning, despite being deaf for five years already, and can't go as fast as the person who has probably been doing it his entire life.

He can feel the vibrations of the audience's laughter, though it's low, so only a few people found his comment humorous. It wasn't really supposed to be.

 _That's excellent. What's been your favorite part of the Capitol so far?_

 _I would say the food, but everyone says that, so I'd say the music you guys have._

Giovanni raises his brow in surprise.

 _The music?_

 _Yes, I know it might seem odd for a deaf boy to like music, but believe it or not, I play the drums back home. I can't hear the sounds instruments make, but I can feel the vibrations coming off them, or in your case, off of the radio. The music here is a lot different from what it is in Six._

 _How so?_

 _It's a lot more fluid. We don't really have much music in Six, or at least nothing mainstream. It's just mainly a bunch of kids playing in their garages with their own made-up bands. The vibrations are usually choppy, but the vibrations in the Capitol's music are fluid and longer._

 _You mentioned you played the drums. Do you have one of these made-up bands?_

He nods. _I actually do! My best friend Lucian and I started one a few years back. He sings and raps while I play the drums. We actually garnered a bit of fame in Six. I'm known as the miracle drummer._

 _Because you're deaf and can still play?_

 _Right on._

 _If you don't mind, I'm going to switch gears because we just have so many questions for our favorite deaf tribute! I know you can still talk. Some of us were wondering how that's possible if you've never heard voices in your life._

"I wasn't always deaf," he says.

The loud vibrations from the audience tell him that they're clapping, he can see their hands move rapidly back and forth too.

 _Really?_

 _Yeah. I could hear until I was ten when I contracted a bad case of meningitis. I can still talk since it's only been five years since I heard people speak. I just don't really like to. It's weird not hearing what you say._

 _That's understandable. And unfortunately, our time tonight us up, much to many of our viewer's dismay, as everyone would love to know more about our first ever sensually-impaired tribute. Thank you so much, Tyrell, and we all wish you the best of luck tomorrow!_

* * *

 _Bruno Muller, 13._

 _District Seven Male._

* * *

He finds it a bit odd that his district partner isn't wearing a dress like most of the girls, instead sporting a plain blouse and skirt. The top is brown, like the bark of the trees back home, and it reminds him of playing in the woods with his friends when he was younger, building forts with tall sticks and leaves. It was one of the only things he did miss about home: the natural beauty of it all. He certainly didn't miss his dad who controlled his every movement and never let him be a kid for one single moment. Even when he played in the woods with his friends his father always knew where he was because Bruno had a tracker implanted in him since he was a baby. Maybe the games wouldn't be any different in regards to the constant surveillance, but at least everyone had to endure it, not just him. And his mother was always sick with something else and shut up in her room, and he didn't really miss her either, because he never got to know her.

Terra seemed to feel the same way too because when asked if she left anyone behind at home, she said no. The interviewer seemed slightly surprised and when he went to ask her more about it, she redirected the conversation to how beautiful Seven was with its foggy forests and rolling hills. She continued to talk about how she liked sitting in the forests alone when Giovanni tells her the time is up, and then it's Bruno's turn to take the stage.

He doesn't feel nervous; he never has when asked to talk in front of people. If asked, he could make conversation about absolutely anything for hours with anyone. It's one of his strong suits.

Taking a seat in the chair, he smiles widely and decides to tell a joke to break the ice.

"So Giovanni, how much do you get paid to just sit here and look handsome?"

The interviewer blushes and laughs along with the audience. "Too little, and am I wrong, or are you flirting with me?"

Bruno shrugs his shoulders, mischievously grinning at the crowd. "Only if you want me to be."

"You're thirteen!" Giovanni exclaims, his eyes almost popping out of his head.

"Age has never been a big factor, in my book."

"And how old do you think I am?"

"Twenty," Bruno giggles, knowing he's older but playing along anyway. "Or maybe nineteen, I don't really know."

The audience laughs again, and Giovanni can't help but chuckle along with them.

"You really are a character, Mr. Muller. And not only that but your skills certainly back up that charisma of yours. If I'm not mistaken, you earned an impressive 7, right?"

"That's right."

"How did someone of your age manage to score one point away from a career?"

"I just slashed the sword around for a little bit, and apparently, the gamemakers liked me, but who doesn't like me?" Bruno chuckles.

The audience roars in approval, and he smiles wider. _This is going amazingly, and he isn't even trying!_

"I don't know one person who wouldn't! You really are just too much! So did you just pick up those sword skills in training, or did you know how to use them before?"

"I always wanted to joust like those knights in the fairytales, so my friends and I used to pretend to swordfight in the woods behind my house. My dad never let us use real swords though, so we just had to use sticks. But I think it helped though, definitely."

"And you mentioned your father, do you miss him at all? It must be hard to be so far away from him, especially for someone who's only thirteen."

Bruno shook his head. "It's actually a lot easier than you would imagine. My dad and I always fought a lot, and he never really liked the fact that you know – I could be anything but straight. I never came out to him back home, but I heard the things he said about gay, trans and bisexual people."

"When did you come out then?" Giovanni asks.

"Well, I haven't really done it formally, but once I was in the Capitol I kind of just stopped caring and decided to embrace who I am. I did tell a few people back at home, but only my really close friends."

He's about to say that he's gay, but then he remembers North and his conversation with Mortimer to pretend so she doesn't get hurt by the fact that he can never like her back.

"That's excellent! So I guess this is your official coming out moment?"

Bruno nods. "Yep. Hey Dad, I'm bisexual, and I don't care anymore whether you like it or not."

Giovanni grins. "Is there anyone here who you have your eye on? Besides me, of course. But everyone has their eye on me! Perhaps any other tributes?"

Bruno blushes, shaking his head. He doesn't mention his almost-boyfriend back home but thinks about him now. "No, but I did hear someone had a crush on me."

The audience gasps as if this is the biggest news of their life. "Really?" Giovanni questions, leaning closer to him. Yet, before Bruno has a chance to respond, the buzzer goes off, signaling that his allotted time is over.

"Well that's all, for now, folks, and let's give Bruno a round of applause for his bravery in telling us his big secret! I'm sure in time the person who is crushing on him will be revealed in time, but for now, we can all take our guesses! We're going to commercial break, so stay tuned for the wonderful Beckett and the other last third of our tributes! The action is far from over! See you soon!"

* * *

 **A/N:** I originally said 10 POVs in this chapter, but I was on like the 8th interview and the doc was already 8.5k words, so I decided to split them up into two sections and add two more interviews, so they'll be 6 POVs each! That also means there will be 3 more chapters until the bloodbath, interviews part 2, and the night before/morning of! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed all the tributes showcased here and I'll probably get the second half of the interviews out by the middle of next week, then hopefully the night before and morning out this weekend!

Who's interview was your favorite? And do you have any winner predictions surfacing?

Until next time,

paper :)


	25. Interviews II: Secrets Revealed

_Interviews II: Secrets Revealed_

* * *

 _Beckett Lock, 14._

 _District Eight "Female"._

* * *

They pace back and forth across the wing of the stage as Giovanni gets his makeup repowered and the audience takes their bathroom break.

 _They should come out._

 _No, they shouldn't._

 _Yes, they should. When else are they going to have the time to do this?_

 _Never._

 _But what if everyone hates them for the real person they are?_

It's been back and forth like this in their head for minutes, a tug of war of sorts between Beckett's mind and their heart. On one hand, they want to come out to the world to lift a massive weight they've been carrying for years of their shoulders. It just went well for Bruno, so it should go well for them, too. Plus, they know despite the fact that they got a six in training, their odds still aren't the best. They are probably going to die, and they want to tell their family the secret they've been harboring for so long. They deserve to know. And if they react badly, they're probably never going to have to see them again, right? _Right._

But on the other hand, what if their allies end up being transphobic? What if they hate them for being genderfluid and kick them out of their alliance? Or what if all the Capitolites look at them like they're a monster? They don't want to deal with all the hate coming out as genderfluid and going against the norm will bring.

The five-minute commercial break comes to a close, and one of the avoxes finds them pacing and hurries her over to their original spot in line. They're next, and they have a clear view of the stage. They've always had stage fright, but no it's even more apparent, and it feels like a million butterflies are relentlessly flapping around in her stomach. They feel like they're going to hurl chunks everywhere.

Then out of nowhere, someone gives them a pat on the shoulder.

Turning around, Beckett stares right into the eyes of their district partner. He's smiling at them, his pearly white teeth even whiter in the reflection of the bright lights of the stage.

"You got this," he whispers.

They blink, nodding their head slowly. Somehow, that did make them feel a bit better. They're about to say thank you but then they hear Giovanni's voice again. Someone pushes them forward to the edge of the curtain, and they lose Gareth in the crowd.

"Welcome back folks! Next up we have the wonderful Beckett Lock from our favorite textile making district, District Eight!"

Instantly, they feel like every single bone in their body turned to ice. When they try to move their legs, they don't budge, and their face goes as pale as freshly fallen snow.

 _What if they're stuck here forever?_

"Mrs. Lock?"

As soon as he says that their muscles seem to respond to their brain again, and they stumble out onto the stage. The bright lights blind them, and for a second, they can't see anything.

"Oh, there she is! Beckett, we thought you'd never come!"

Everyone laughs, and they feel even more like they're going to puke. Whatever bravery Gareth's pat instilled in them vanished, and now they feel even more scared and vulnerable than before.

The audience laughing at them. This couldn't be going more terribly.

Eventually, their eyes adjust to the bright lights, and they slowly make their way over to the tributes' seat. Giovanni smiles at them as they sit, and they try to smile back. Their lips don't seem to work though, for their terrified expression seems to stay put.

"How are you holding up in the Capitol, Beckett?"

They try to open their mouth but no words come out.

"Uh-uh-uh," is all that the microphones pick up, and the crowd instantly goes silent.

"Hey," Giovanni says, smiling widely at her. "You don't have to be afraid. We're all here to just learn more about you. No one is here to judge."

They nod their head. "I'm holding up fine," they whisper, which apparently is loud enough for everyone to hear because no one complains.

"That's good. Most of the time tributes don't take it too well, and especially after what happened during your reaping, we were worried about you. But it's good to know you've moved past it. Speaking of the reaping, was that a traumatic experience for you?"

"Yeah. I was pretty scary having someone else's blood on me. But actually, when I think about it, I can't really remember anything that happened. I just remember washing my dress after on the train and watching the blood run down the drain."

"After that, I'm guessing your experience in the Capitol was much better?"

"Mhm. I really like the food."

"Most tributes do," Giovanni responds. "But what's your _favorite_?"

"The apple pie. It's so good. I didn't think I'd like fruit since I don't really have a sweet tooth, but it was just delicious. I wish we had apples at home."

"And your home? Do you miss it?"

They nod. "Yeah, I miss all my family, but I miss my older brothers most of all. I hope they're watching."

"I bet they are. Beckett, do you have anything you want to tell them? Perhaps a something you never told them before?"

They nod their head slowly. Now's their chance, their chance to tell their family what they've been hiding for so long. They need to do it, even if they're scared. No one is here to judge them like Giovanni said. They can do it.

"Yeah. Sal, Oliver, Fredrick and Hugh, I love you guys more than anything, but I sometimes I didn't like it when you'd call me your baby sister. And mom and dad, other times I didn't like when you made me wear dresses. It's really complicated to explain, but sometimes, I just don't feel like a girl. I don't really know how to describe the feeling, but I kind of just feel wrong some days in dresses and when you call me your daughter or sister. Sometimes I feel more like a boy, and sometimes I wanted to wear more boyish clothes and for you to call me your son or brother instead. But sometimes I do still feel like a girl, and I like it when you call me sister. It's weird to explain."

"So you're genderfluid?"

Beckett nods. They never really knew the correct term for it, but as it rolled off Giovanni's tongue, it just sounded right.

"Yeah, I guess I'm genderfluid."

"That's excellent Beckett! How long have you known?"

"Since I was twelve. One day, the teacher separated us into boys and girls, and I just didn't feel right being called a girl. I've never told anyone though, not until now."

Everyone applauds, and they instantly feel a wave of relief wash over them. They did it.

They came out, and it feels like they're thirty pounds lighter.

* * *

 _Eliora Abraham, 16._

 _District Nine Female._

* * *

When the District Seven boy and District Eight girl – or rather, tribute – come out as bisexual and genderfluid, stealing the hearts of the audience, she just rolls her eyes.

She's been out as pansexual for years, but no one ever gave her a standing ovation. They just treated her like everyone else and moved on with their lives. She always wanted a big reaction when she told everyone she wasn't attracted to a gender, but no one ever gave her the attention she craved so badly.

When she told her aunt and uncle, they just said that they didn't care and still loved her the same, then walked away to go make dinner like it was every other night of their lives. And her cousin just told her she wasn't special and that she was probably just doing this to get attention. She wasn't though. Her feelings toward her girlfriend were as real as her hatred toward her bratty cousin.

Maybe she should talk up how much she loves her girlfriend to capture the audience's hearts too.

Gareth's interview flies by. He uses words she never even heard of as he talks fondly about his adoptive father and their life back home. Then he disappears off the left wing of the stage and it's her turn to try to woo the crowd over.

"And onto District Nine! Our first tribute from the district is the lovely redhead, the sweet Eliora Abraham!"

Sweet isn't the first word that comes to find when she thinks about words she could use to describe herself, but it's better than manipulative or bitch, which people have used before, so she'll take it.

"Oh Eliora, you look wonderful!" Giovanni chimes as she takes a seat.

"Thank you," she murmurs, looking down at her green strapless sundress. Her stylists actually did a decent job this time, picking a color the surprisingly didn't clash with her pale skin or fiery hair.

"So Eliora, how have you been?"

She smiles. "I've been well enough, considering that you know, I'm in the Hunger Games. And if you don't mind Giovanni, I'd like to skip the formalities and go straight to talking about my _girlfriend_."

He looks slightly surprised, his thick eyebrows arched upwards, and she feels her lips curve into a larger smile. _Yep, my girlfriend. You heard that right. Girlfriend._

However, that's not what he's surprised about. "I've never gotten a request to skip the formalities, but if you insist, that's fine by me. So, tell us a bit about this obviously very special person in your life."

"Well my _girlfriend's_ name is Tizrah, and she's literally the light of my life. My _girlfriend_ is always so positive and my nickname for my _girlfriend_ is sunshine because she's my ray of sunshine."

She makes sure to put extra emphasis on the word girlfriend because, by the audience's somewhat bored faces, it seems like they didn't exactly hear that it was a _girl_ she was talking about.

"That's so cute!" Giovanni exclaims. "So, I'm guessing you want to get home to this sunshine of yours?"

"More than anything. I can't bear the thought of my _girlfriend_ opening up my coffin and seeing my dead body inside it. It would just break her heart. I'm going to get home to her and I'll do anything to make sure we won't ever be separated for this long again. Once I get home, I'll try my best to spend every minute of every day with her, because being here has made me realize we might not have many left."

"Very touching. How long have you two been dating?"

"Only a few months, but it feels like so much longer. I love her more than anything."

To Eliora's surprise, no one seems to be that shocked. The all actually look slightly bored, like they heard this speech already tonight. And they did – the District Two girl gave practically the same one and they loved it, so why didn't they love her determination to get back to her girlfriend too?

Giovanni picks up on the audience's bored faces, for he changes the subject. "So, have you found any allies so far?"

"I thought we were talking about my girlfriend," Eliora asks, cocking her head to the side in confusion.

"Well we were, but we only have a minute more, so I thought it'd be best to move on."

Eliora's face slumps. The world is so unfair. _Why did everyone love Hana but hate her?_

"Oh, alright," she mutters quietly, dropping her head. "I have two allies, Lennox and Terra. They're both okay. Lennox reminds me a bit of my girlfriend. He's always so bright and sunny."

"Except when he had that outburst during training, right?"

For the first time during her interview, the audience attention seems to have perked. It was probably because Lennox was actually interesting, unlike her. Of course, he stole her spotlight even during her interview.

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess? Weren't you scared when he threw that knife?"

"I mean," she huffs, "I'm probably going to die anyway, so what's the difference of a few days?"

Giovanni furrows his eyebrows. "But we're you just talking about how much you want to get home to your girlfriend?"

She shrugs. "I don't really know anymore."

The buzzer sounds and Giovanni looks slightly relieved. "Well, I guess that's it! May the odds be ever in your favor, Eliora!"

She receives one of the quietest applauses of the night.

* * *

 _Braxton Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

He twitches silently off to the side of the stage, sweating buckets in his forest green tuxedo embroidered with multicolored flowers. It's ugly – his and Marguerite's stylists were the worst of the bunch this year, deciding to not only coordinate their awful cow chariot costumes but also connect their interview outfits as well. The short girl is standing in front of him, wearing a white sundress with the same exact flowers knitted into them. Both their stylists were ecstatic when they saw them together, praising how good they wore the look and how flowers would be the next big trend in the Capitol.

He got an 8 in training, not trying to look like he _is_ eight. He wants to be seen as a competitor people can bet on, not a child. His stylists really aren't helping.

Currently, the District Nine boy is on stage, and Braxton decides that he should be the one wearing the flowers instead of him. He's sunny and optimistic, explaining to Giovanni that he sees a path out of the games and that he's trying not to think about the fact that he or his allies could die tomorrow. Braxton is thinking about that though because unlike Coral's "we're all a big happy family" view of the alliance, he's not afraid to slit their throats. And apparently, Freyja wasn't either, because she left them without even a second glance. He doesn't blame her though. The only difference between him and her is that he's hiding the fact that he doesn't care about them, and she didn't bother to sugarcoat it.

"Next up is our favorite twelve-year-old, Marguerite Thorne!"

Braxton hears her snicker under her breath.

"After this, your best-liked twelve-year-old will be anyone else but me," she chuckles quietly to herself, then walks onto the stage, not bothering to fake a smile like most of the other competitors did.

If she wasn't so unfriendly, Braxton thinks he would actually like her.

"Hello, Marguerite! You look absolutely adorable!"

She frowns at him, which makes Braxton burst out into laughter. "I vehemently detest my stylist."

"Oh really? But they're only trying to help you, sweetie!"

"Don't call me sweetie."

"Marguerite is a bit of a handful though. Can we call you Margie? That's perfect for a little twelve-year-old like you!"

"No."

"How about Marg?"

"No."

"How about Rita?"

"How about you refer to me by my given name, Marguerite?" She quips back, smiling for the first time during her interview. Braxton laughs again.

"Okay. Marguerite, how are you?"

"Horrific."

"Why?"

"The Capitol is nauseating."

Giovanni chuckles. "Well, no one has used that word before. Why do you think that?"

For the rest of her interview, Marguerite talks about how horrendous her stay in the Capitol has been, and Braxton can help but laugh at everything she had to say. All of it was true – the people looked funny, the Games were savage, and everything just felt – well – so fake. He guesses many other tributes agree, but no one had the guts to point it out like she did. He certainly didn't.

Giovanni can't get through to her, and at the end of the interview, people boo. She just smiles though, eating it all up. It's like she likes people hating her. Or rather, she just doesn't want to play their game. He respects that, but he will. He wants to survive.

"Let's give a warm welcome to Braxton Busbee from Ten!"

The crowd applauds politely, and he steps out onto the stage. The light is bright but he manages to find his way over to the seat where he's supposed to be sitting, taking a seat beside Giovanni.

"Well, Braxton you look uh - "

"Interesting?"

Giovanni nods. "That's one word I'd use. You and your district partner's outfits look very similar. Was that planned?"

"I think so," he responds. "I mean – flowers aren't my favorite thing to wear, but I can deal with it for a few minutes. I don't know if she could, though."

Some people in the crowd chuckle and he can imagine his tiny District partner fuming off stage.

"What is your favorite thing to wear then?"

He chuckles. "Blood."

Giovanni raises a brow.

"I'm only kidding, don't worry. I'm not actually a murderer."

Not yet at least.

Giovanni sighs in relief. "Good, for a second I thought I'd have to call security! So Braxton, how are you doing on this fine evening?"

"I'm fantastic. How about you?"

"I'm well, thanks for asking. Have you been enjoying the Capitol?"

"Of course! I've met a lot of cool people, especially my allies! And the food is just to die for!"

Literally.

"What allies are you referring to?"

He smiles, looking out at the crowd.

"Well Skylar, he's just awesome. He's such a smart dude. He has an awesome strategy and planned something I think everyone's going to find interesting for the bloodbath tomorrow. Beckett's really quiet, but she – uh I mean they, they're just so brave. And Coral's cool too, she's just such a sweetheart. She calls our alliance "a big happy family" which makes it feel kind of like home, you know?"

"I don't, but I'm guessing the other tributes in the alliance are appreciative of that. And speaking of home, is there anyone back in Ten who you'd like to say some parting words to tonight?"

"My parents," he murmurs. "I know we haven't really been close in the past few years, and I know we had some disagreements, so I just wasn't to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done some of the things that I did, and I want to make you proud that I'm your son again. I'm going to show you that I can finish things, and I'm going to finish the games so I can get back to you. I know our goodbye wasn't the last time we'll ever see each other again, and if you can forgive me, I'll try to make all that lost time up to you."

He knows it's vague, but he doesn't want everyone to know he's a flake and ran away from home because he didn't want to be a responsible adult. His parents will understand, and so will he, which is all that matters.

Some people in the audience looked slightly confused, but before he has time to explain, the buzzer rings, and Giovanni is forced to say goodbye.

"Braxton, we're wishing you the best of luck, but I know with that 8 you received in training, you won't need it!"

* * *

 _Takei Sadeh, 17._

 _District Eleven Male._

* * *

Manisha's interview kind of makes him feel sorry for ignoring her during training, which is probably what it's supposed to do. Apparently, she was bullied all her life for being mixed race, and people back in Eleven thought she was weird because she liked technology. Maybe she was just trying to fit in when she lied to him. Still, after being lied to all his life, it's hard to forgive her.

"Next up, straight from District Eleven is the marvelous Takei Sadeh!"

He sees Winnifred on the other side of the stage give him a big thumbs up, and he walks out into the light. He's a little nervous – normally he isn't when talking in front of large groups of people, but tonight he is. He's worried that they're going to ask him about his home, and what's he going to say? _He lived in a homonormative cult for 17 years and wasn't really allowed outside?_ That'll for sure gain sponsors.

He feels conflicted about whether he should talk about his home life at all. On one hand he wants to spread awareness that things like this exist out there, and they're restrictive and should be changed, but on the other hand, he doesn't want the people he loves to get hurt. What if they arrest his dads? What if they're shot and killed all because he exposed their community? What if his friends and siblings are hurt? He wants to bring change, but change comes at a price. He doesn't know if he's willing to pay it.

"Hey, Takei!" Giovanni greets as he sits down next to him.

Takei smiles back, noticing that his hands are still shaking slightly. "Hey."

"I see you have your hair done up in your signature afro again! Apparently, it's starting to become a big fashion statement in some Capitol circles! They're calling it the Sadeh! Isn't that awesome?"

Takei smiles. "Yeah, it's pretty cool. I'm surprised it caught on so quickly here!"

"Everything catches on quickly here! That's why we're called the fashion Capitol of Panem! Are afros fashionable in Eleven?"

Takei shrugs. "I don't really know. I don't go out much."

Giovanni narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Takei takes a deep breath. Maybe if his hairstyle caught on quickly, his passion for bringing change in restrictive communities could do. He needs to talk about his home, even if there is a chance of people getting hurt. "I don't actually live in Eleven."

"What?"

"I mean, I live i _n_ Eleven, but it's far away from the main city and the towns surrounding it. I live in a sub-community by the District Ten border, and since it's so far from everything else, we don't really leave a lot."

"Oh. I've never heard of sub-communities. Could you tell us more about it?"

Takei nods. "Sure. I mean, I can't really speak for every sub-community, since I know there's a lot out there in a lot of different districts, so not everyone is like mine. Actually, I'm pretty sure none of them are like mine."

"What's your's like?"

"Well, for one, everyone's gay."

People gasp in surprise, and Giovanni seems to look slightly stunned as well.

Takei continues. "I know it's a little shocking, and it was a little shocking for me too when I realized that in the outside world, it was the opposite, and it was normal to be straight. Which is good for me, because I've never really felt like I fit in there. I never liked all the boys my two dads tried to set me up with. I always liked girls more, but living there, everyone was gay, or at least people who weren't never spoke up about it. I felt like I was broken living there, but I'm relieved to know there are tons of people like me out in the regular world."

"If you don't mind me asking," Giovanni blurts, "this question is going to be a little odd, but there's no way for two men to have a baby or two women to have a baby. And you lived there your entire life. We're you adopted?"

Takei shakes his head. "No. Even though everyone either had two dads or two moms, after two of the same-sex people marry, they look for pairs of the opposite gender to pair up with. Then they have kids, and if the kid is a boy, like me, they're raised by the dads. If the kid is a girl, they're raised by the moms. It's actually kind of cool."

"I guess. So do you ever see your mom?"

"Not really. And we don't call her our mom, we call her our birthgiver. It's hard to understand the dynamic of things until you're there."

"So how have you adjusted to the outside world?" Giovanni asks.

"Well enough, considering it was a complete culture shock for me. My ally Winnifred's been helping me out though. She's a really good person to have on my side."

"That's excellent!" Giovanni exclaims. "It's good to find someone you can rely on, especially in your circumstance. And I've heard you guys have been getting close, too. Is there anything more than a friendship there?"

Takei's cheeks flush red, and he shakes his head back and forth. "No. Strictly friends," he lies, though she probably still sees them as that way.

"And how about your other ally, Manisha? Have you two been getting along?"

Takei shrugs. "She's alright. She's very nice, but I don't really know exactly how reliable she is."

In the middle of his sentence, the buzzer sounds.

"Well Takei, your interview was certainly one of the most informative of the night! Good luck to adjusting to the real world, and I'm sure everyone's curious to learn more about your strange home! Maybe if you get to the final eight family interview, we'll get to learn more about it!"

"Sponsor me so I can get there!" Takei yells on his way out.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm sure people are already on the phones making donations!"

* * *

 _North Brier, 14._

 _District Twelve Female._

* * *

She thought Twelve was screwed up, but when she heard Takei talk about his home that sounded more like a cult, she decided that she was lucky to have grown up on the streets. At least she had free will that way, even if she was hungry half the time.

Takei hurries off the stage, leaving her and Mortimer as the only ones left in the wing. Her district partner stands behind her, making it more than obvious he doesn't want to talk, his arms folded over his chest in a defensive position. He actually looks rather nice tonight too, dressed in a bronze tuxedo. A fancy watch worth probably twice as much as his house adorns his wrist, and he keeps checking the time on it as if he has somewhere he needs to be.

She, on the other hand, is dressed in a deep red glossy slip dress, with crimson lipstick to match. Golden jewelry hangs from her ears, wrists, and neck, and she wears tall gold heels that make her look normal height. She's gained a bit of weight even in her short time in the Capitol, and her ribs are a lot less protruding now, only sticking out from her tight dress slightly. Mortimer is still a tiny twig.

She hears Giovanni call her name and before walking onto the stage, she turns around and smiles at Mortimer.

"Good luck," she whispers.

He doesn't respond and pretends not to hear her, though she knows he does. Then she turns around and takes a deep breath even though she isn't nervous. _What does she have to lose?_ She's already the little scrawny kid from Twelve who has no chance of winning, and the worst thing that could happen tonight is she makes a fool of herself and doesn't get any sponsors, but she's not getting any sponsors anyway. No one's betting on them, and when she walks out onto the stage, she sees almost half the crowd has left their seats anyway, probably already gone home for the night.

Taking a seat beside Giovanni, she crosses her legs and looks out at the crowd, not noticing that she's a bit wide-eyed.

"I've never seen so many people in my life," she blurts out, the words coming out before she even has a chance to think about what she's saying. "This is crazy."

"Well maybe if you win, you'll see these many people again," Giovanni replies. "Maybe more."

She shrugs. "Maybe."

"So North, how's the Capitol life been treating you?"

"Fine. Training has been kind of boring, and I wish there was more nature here. I miss watching the sunsets in Twelve. But everything else is a lot better. I like the food, and having my own bed, and being able to take showers."

"There's not showers back in Twelve?"

North shakes her head. "I live on the streets. The only showers I've ever taken are here."

"On the streets?" Giovanni asks, cocking his head to the side.

"Yeah. My mom's dead, and my dad – well, let's just say I never got the chance to meet him. I've never had a house to live in. I live with one of my friends in an ally. But it's a good life. I don't have any responsibilities, which is nice. It seems everyone here has so many things on their mind and so many things to do. I've just been taking it slow and soaking in as much as I can."

"That's a good way to look at it. Do you think you're ready for the games tomorrow?"

North shrugs. "As ready as I'll ever be. I'm just looking at it like another day to survive. I've been surviving my whole life, and tomorrow's not going to be any different."

"You act a lot older then you are," Giovanni points out. "You have a very realistic outlook on life."

North just laughs, glancing over at Mortimer. She sees him roll her eyes and then she laughs again. "You haven't seen the real me if you think I'm mature."

"What's the real you then?"

She winks at him. "You'll see during the games."

"Oh really?"

"Yep. I can't give anything away too soon. Then you'll have a reason to keep me around!"

"Mysterious," Giovanni chortles. "I like it. So, do you have any last words to say to your friend at home?"

She looks into one of the cameras and thinks about Eben. She wonders if he's watching now, like they did the last few years, huddled in front of the television shop in the cold, watching the interviews on a small, fuzzy television screen. He wishes he wasn't, but knowing him, he will be. He wants to protect her, even if she can't be protected anymore.

"No," she replies, looking back up at Giovanni. "He knows how I feel."

"Well, that's good you two had some closure! Anyway, I think we're just about at our time limit, so I thank you for your time and we'll see you during the games!"

* * *

 _ **A/N:** And that's it for our interviews! I think I got everyone in there at least once, and now we're only two chapters away from where the real fun begins! Yay!_

 _I've already finished the next chapter, so that should be out on Friday. Hopefully I'll be able to get the chapter before the bloodbath out on Sunday, because I'm going away to a place where there is absolutely NO internet access for two weeks after that, so there will be no updates until I get back. That's kind of why I wanted to get the bloodbath out by July, but I guess it's going to have to wait until I get back._

 _That being said, who's interview was your favorite between the two combined chapters?_

 _See you all soon,_

 _paper :)_


	26. Night Before: Regrets

_Last Night: Regrets_

* * *

 _Archer "Archie" Caspian, 17._

 _District Four Male._

* * *

They're all sitting in a circle on the floor of the District One tributes' apartment, strategizing for tomorrow.

"So, with Pilate gone now, how are we going to run things during the games?" Valentine asks, leaning back on the sofa behind her. She's the only one who has changed out of her interview costume and is wearing purple pajamas, her chocolate hair still gelled and straightened back.

"I know no one wants it, but the best packs in the past have had strong leaders," Hana points out. "The only exception was the 10th games, but the pack was very dysfunctional that year and all careers were basically killed by other careers. I'd say that year was an outlier, and now that we got Pilate out, everything's more stable, so that definitely won't happen to us."

Everyone nods in agreement.

"The packs in the 8th, 9th and 11th games were all very strong," Hana continues, "and careers all won during those years. I think we should try to replicate their success."

"But they didn't have another strong alliance to rival them like the one this year with the boy from Three, Coral, the girl from Eight and Braxton," Clay points out. "They're strong. Plus, we have Pilate and Freyja to deal with too."

Hana nods. "That's true, but I think we should still try to stick with what works. And I think to avoid having a leader like Pilate, we should make it a democracy and vote for the leader."

"I agree," Archie inputs, and his comment is one of the first things he's said all night. Unlike his other fellow careers, he's not all about the strategy. He hates planning and would rather just play everything by ear. They're still the strongest alliance in the Games and they'll still be able to steamroll over the other alliances. They don't need to plan. However, no one else seems to think that way, so he's just going along with the rest of them.

"Okay, let's vote then," Valentine decides. "I vote for Clay. He got the highest score ever and I think that he'll be the strongest leader we have. By the way, how did you get that score? You never told us."

Clay chuckles. "I built a shelter and told everyone it was Pilate's home, then I make a bomb and blew it to pieces."

The girls laugh, but Archie's eyes go just wide. Clay had a little bit of a dark side to him, even if he didn't show it regularly.

"I vote for Hana," Clay murmurs. "She knows like everything about the games. I think she'll be able to make the most rational decisions that will get us to the end."

Hana nods, expecting it. "Can I vote for myself?" she asks, giggling.

Everyone shrugs. "No, I'm only kidding. I vote for Valentine. She's really determined and brave."

All eyes turn to Archie.

"You're the tie-breaker!" Valentine exclaims.

He really doesn't care. "I guess Clay?" Archie mutters, his answer sounding more like a question than anything else. "He got the highest score, so I think he deserves to be the leader. Plus, he's like perfect at everything."

Clay blushes. "Okay, I guess I'm the leader then. Onto bloodbath strategies next?"

Hana nods. "I've been thinking about this for years. I think the best long-term plan for the bloodbath is to blockade the cornucopia so that no one can get supplies but us. That way, we won't have to do as much hunting later. The tributes will hopefully just die off on their own because they don't have access to food or water. And hopefully there will be mutts in the arena, and if most of the tributes are weaponless, they won't be able to defend themselves."

"That's ingenious!" Clay exclaims. "Is everyone good with that?"

Archie and Hana nod, but Valentine looks a bit skeptical. "But what about Pilate?" she asks. "Shouldn't we take him out while we have the chance?"

Clay shakes his head back and forth quickly. "I think that problem will solve itself. I'm sure he'll self-destruct or something."

"Plus, if we abandon the cornucopia to fight him, everyone will get supplies, and that's exactly what we don't want," Hana adds.

"I agree," Clay says. "But what do we do about Pilate?"

Hana frowns. "I think if he comes close enough, we can kill him, but we shouldn't make an effort to run after him. I think that will only spell disaster. He has a bunch of tricks up his sleeve, and with Freyja on his side now, he's pretty dangerous. And if our plan works, hopefully, they won't get any supplies and they'll die themselves out in the arena."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Valentine shift awkwardly. He knows she wants to kill Pilate - she sees him as a bully, and everyone knows how much Valentine hates bullies, but to his surprise, she stays silent.

Clay nods. "I think that's fair. So, is everyone ready for tomorrow?"

Everyone nods, except Archie, who still is doubting whether or not he's ready, despite the year of training he has under his belt. Yet, it doesn't matter, because tomorrow's coming whether he wants it to or not.

* * *

 _Terra McIntosh, 18._

 _District Seven Female._

* * *

Bruno's gone to bed already, but she's still up, sitting at the kitchen counter and funneling chocolate cake into her mouth.

The seventh floor is quiet save for her chewing, and she looks over at the clock. 10:13. She's still in her interview outfit; she hasn't bothered to take it off, except for the makeup, which was bothering her face. Then a minute later she hears light footsteps behind her, and she turns to see her blonde mentor standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips.

"Want some cake?" Terra asks.

"No," Daffodil replies plainly. "I don't eat that stuff. Too many carbs."

Terra rolls her eyes. Right now, she could care less about carbs. She's going into the Hunger Games tomorrow after all. She needs to fill up before, because who knows what food there's going to be in there if there's any food at all. This could be the last time she ever has cake in her life.

She shutters. That's a scary thought.

"More for me then," she chuckles, then funnels another forkful into her mouth.

"Want to come out to the porch with me?" her mentor blurts out of nowhere.

"Why?"

"Extra training," she says a little too quickly.

"But it's the night before the games. Shouldn't I be resting?"

"You can never be prepared enough."

"Fine. After I finish my cake."

Her mentor nods in agreement at the compromise then disappears into the hallway. Terra stuffs a few more pieces into her mouth then follows after her, walking through the hallway and living room then out onto the porch. Daffodil's already sitting out there, her back turned. Terra slides open a glass screen door and steps out into the frosty night air. Chills instantly run down her spine.

"Take a seat," her mentor orders, not bothering to turn around to face her.

Terra nods and sits beside her.

"You know this is one of the only places in the Training Center without a camera?"

"No, I didn't," Terra replies.

"Yeah. None of the porches have cameras. They used to a long time ago, before the 6th Hunger Games. That was the year the District Eight girl jumped off and committed suicide. It was broadcasted all over Panem and it made people sick. So, they uninstalled the cameras and installed forcefields. They're almost invisible, but do you see that wavelike thing that looks like it's radiating just outside the balcony?"

"Yeah."

"That's it."

"That's cool," Terra mutters but isn't really interested. She just wants to go back to the kitchen and eat some more. It makes her feel better. "Are you going to give me more advice on how to win now?"

Daffodil shakes her head. "Not exactly."

"Then why are we out here?"

Daffodil turns to her, her expression instantly turning very serious. "Terra, how badly do you want to survive?"

"More than anything."

"Promise me you want to survive more than anything else. More than protecting your family. More than staying true to your morals. Promise me."

"Why?" Terra asks, confused at why her mentor got so serious all of a sudden. It was a weird request.

"Just do it."

"I promise," she murmurs, raising her left hand into the air.

"Good. Then my plan won't be an issue for you."

"Your plan?" Terra asks, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. "What plan?"

"Keep your voice down. There might not be cameras out here, but there are some inside."

"Sorry. What's the plan?"

"The plan is for you to make it out of the arena alive, only, you're not going to be the victor."

Terra looks even more confused now. "What? That makes no sense."

"You're going to escape."

"How? That's impossible, there are forcefields all around the arena! The last person who tried to run got electrocuted and their heart stopped working! I don't want that to happen to me!"

Daffodil shakes her head back and forth. "It won't. Listen to me. I have people on the inside, connections in high places. I don't spend all my time making friends here for nothing. There are countless people here who owe me a thing or two, and believe it or not, there are also rebels in the Capitol who hate the Hunger Games and want to end it."

"Rebels?!" she squawks.

"Shh!" her mentor chides. "Be quiet!"

"Sorry."

Her mentor continues. "I have a friend who's a gamemaker. He's going to shut off the forcefield for one minute and disable your tracker entirely. That's the most he can do without getting caught. You're going to run as fast as you can. I'll send you signals exactly an hour before it's going to happen, but if you can, stay as close to the boundary as possible. We're going to shut off the cameras in the arena for the same minute as the forcefield, so you're going to have to be quick, alright? There's only a small window of time you have to escape. If we do it right, they won't even know you're gone until it's too late."

"But what if I don't escape?"

"Then you die."

Terra gulps. "O-okay."

"If you do manage to make it through the window though, you're going to run a mile to your west – toward the setting sun. We'll pick you up there. We would do it closer to the arena, but it's a higher chance of them finding us the closer to the arena we are. After that, we'll take you to an old rebel base north of Seven where many of us are already waiting. Then, we'll hack into the channel the Hunger Games is broadcasted on and broadcast you speaking all over Panem. I know the power of press more than anyone, and it'll show people that the Capitol can be beaten and that their games are beatable. It will hopefully spark the rebels to rise up again. I'm so sick of watching my tributes die every year, and I want it to end. And I believe you can be the one who ends it."

"Me?" she gawks.

"Yes, you. People will love you. You'll be the face of the rebellion. Everyone will be chanting your name."

She smiles slightly. People loving her sounded nice.

"Does Bruno know?" she asks.

"No. He's too immature to have this valuable information. He could tell someone. No one else knows but you and me, and a couple of other victors."

"Can I tell my allies?"

"Absolutely not. They're unstable and very unpredictable. Who knows what they could do? Are you still willing to do it?"

She nods. "If it means I'll get survive, yes."

And for everyone to love her, but she doesn't mention that part.

"Good," Daffodil smiles, squeezing her hand. "Go get some sleep now, you're going to need it for the next few days."

* * *

 _Skylar "Sky" Baxter, 17._

 _District Three Male._

* * *

He doesn't know what time it is, but he can't seem to fall asleep. He's just lying there in the dark, staring at a ceiling he can't see, wondering if this is the last night he's ever going to be alive.

After a while he gets sick of thinking depressing thoughts and stands to his feet, making his way across the dark room. He pushes the door open and steps out into the hallway, letting his legs guide him places his brain doesn't know. His legs propel him past Freyja and his mentor's room and into the living room, where a small table lamp is on. It's light dimly illuminates the large, spacious room and he takes a seat on the couch. On the table beside the lamp is a small remote. He clicks the television on and puts the volume on mute because he doesn't want to wake anyone else up.

However, it seems his district partner couldn't sleep either, for a few minutes later she wanders into the room and wordlessly takes a seat beside him.

They watch the television in silence, both not daring to look at the other. Skylar thinks the situation is slightly odd but he doesn't do anything to fix it, deciding to just watch the television and ignore Freyja next to him. She seems to think the same thought because for what seems like hours, no one says a word.

The weird part about it is that he's not even mad she betrayed him. The rest of his allies are but he expected it – Freyja likes to pretend that she plays for the team, but really, she just plays for himself. He knows that she's just as unloyal and flaky as her father, even if she claims she's nothing like him. Still, he doesn't really want to talk to her. It's not that he's angry, but rather just fed up with all her lies and false promises.

He remembers a long time ago she asked him to go to a middle school dance with her. They never liked each other but always just saw each other as friends – or acquaintances with benefits, really - they used each other to get what they wanted, and they both knew it too, but neither complained. They both got something out of it. Freyja a date so she looked popular and Sky a chance to tell his mother he was being social. But then during the dance, Freyja was asked to dance by a much more popular boy, and she left him alone for the rest of the night to dance awkwardly by himself. He thinks it's similar to the situation now with Pilate.

"Want to play a video game?" Freyja asks, breaking the silence and tension between them.

Sky nods, and he stands and grabs two controllers from a bookshelf under the flat screen television. He tosses it to her and she catches it in her hands, then presses a button on it and the screen instantly displays a shooting game Sky used to play back in Three.

Taking a seat back on the couch, he presses the start button and everything instantly comes rushing back, and as the first wave of zombies descends upon him and his district partner he realizes he's becoming slightly teary-eyed.

They last for a few rounds – much fewer then Sky normally completes, but Freyja never played before, and he's usually on a team with experienced players.

"You're good," she points out, turning to him after the words MISSION FAILED appear in big, red block letters on the screen.

"I used to be really good," Sky murmurs, then places the remote down on the couch next to him. "Really good."

"I used to be good at making jewelry," Freyja mutters, looking down sadly at the controller in her hands.

"Really?" Sky asks. He never thought Freyja was good at anything but acting and buttering people up. "That's cool."

She nods. "Too bad now."

"Do you regret it?" he asks.

She cocks her head to the side. "Regret what?"

"Everything."

"Everything?" she echoes back, then begins to laugh – a real, genuine laugh. "Well, that's vague." Sky starts laughing too for some weird reason. Maybe it's his way of coping with things he can't control – the fact that his father put him in the games and he went along with all the bribery and lies because he just wanted to play video games all day. It's weird to think that someone he loves could have done this to him, sent him to his death. He wonders if he cares or he's just happy it's Sky and not him.

If he looks back on it, he regrets it. Every second of it.

He should have spent his life outside, not playing video games. He should have seen the world instead of staying inside his own home. And now it might end, all because of his selfish father that he trusted to protect him.

"I wish I trusted the right people," Freyja mutters, looking down at the controller again.

He does, too.

"Do you trust me?" Sky asks, looking up at her with curious eyes.

"With my life."

"Do you trust Pilate?"

"Not even a little bit."

He blinks. "Then why are you allies with him and not me?"

Freyja looks up at him, meeting his gaze. "Because I can't kill you, Sky. You're my weakness."

He looks down at the floor. Maybe that's why she tried to distance herself in the first place on the train when she told him he was lazy and told him she wanted to join the careers instead of ally with him. They've been friends forever, and Freyja's the only person who has really been there through it all for him, thick and thin. They understand each other better than anyone else does, they know each other's flaws, each other's strengths, more than anyone else in the world. Their relationship is rocky, but in a way, it's like they're brother and sister, in a strange, abstract way. They're both here because they've been lied and cheated too. They're both here because their parents love themselves more then they love them. They know what it's like to be betrayed. And by betraying Sky, maybe Freyja really didn't betray him.

Freyja stands.

"It's been a good run, hasn't it?" she chuckles.

"I wouldn't call it good."

They both laugh.

"It's been a run," she mutters, then steps forward and wraps Sky in a hug. He's surprised and doesn't really know what to do, so he just stands there as she embraces him, his lanky bones stretched out awkwardly.

"I hate my dad."

"I hate my dad too," he mutters.

She pulls back and smiles. "Let's promise each other this: if either of us makes it out alive, we kill those idiots. We'll already be murderers by then, so what's the difference?"

Sky laughs. "Okay, I promise."

"Shake on it?"

They shake hands like they used to do when they were kids. In a way, nothing's changed, but in a way, everything has.

* * *

 _Gareth Emory, 18._

 _District Eight Male._

* * *

He steals a glance at the digital clock beside his bed. The red numbers blink 11:57. He smiles slightly, then turns back and dives his nose deep into the edible insects' book. He has nine more hours left until breakfast, and he needs to utilize every one of them if he doesn't want to face his worst fear: death.

 _Grasshoppers, safe. Scorpions, safe to eat only if cooked. Ants, safe. Wasps, poisonous. Crickets, safe._

He's trying not to think about the games tomorrow, but naturally, they're on his mind. He remembers watching them with his adoptive father, Akuji, sitting on the couch in the living room and cringing every time a tribute died.

"That'll never be me," he told himself then, confident that because he never took tesserae, the odds of his name being drawn were slim to none.

Yet, here he is, the night before the games, possibly on the verge of death.

He looks back at his book and continues to read, not wanting to waste a single second.

He's been up all night for the past few evenings, trying to read every book that he can possibly get his hands on. The first night he read about edible nuts and berries, the second he learned how to stitch up a wound, and the third he learned how to make traps to snare animals. By learning as much as he can, he's trying to leave as little as possible up to chance. There's no way he's dying of something completely preventable like eating nightlock or bleeding out from a wound that can easily be stitched up. He's not starving either.

Yet, as the night ticks on, he's finding it harder and harder to pay attention. He hasn't slept in days, and the massive amount of coffee and energy drinks he's been consuming to supplement him not sleeping is beginning to wear off. Sleep tugs at his eyes and he feels his lids droop, and a loud yawn escapes his mouth.

Turning over onto his side, he takes another look at the clock. 1:10. Maybe he should get some sleep.

 _But what if there's something in the book that he's missed?_

He reads the pages over a third time to make sure, then places the book on the nightstand beside his bed and flicks off the light. The room goes pitch black, and he shutters. He's always been afraid of the dark; he never knows what's hiding in the shadows where his eyes can't detect anything. _What if another tribute is in this room, knife in hand, ready to kill him? What if Beckett decides they want to take their competition out a little bit early? What if the careers were secretly going from floor to floor killing every tribute in the building?_

He begins to shake and instantly flicks on his light. To his surprise, the room is empty as it was a few seconds ago, the only living thing in here Gareth. He sighs in relief and closes his eyes, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Well, I think I owe you all a fair amount of explanation. _

_The end of my summer was crazy. I went away for a few weeks then came back and had 5 books to read and a paper to write for school, all of which I'd been putting off. So this got put off._

 _Then school came, and it's crazy. It's my junior year, I'm playing a sport this fall, and for any of you who play high school sports, you know it's super time consuming. Practices every day after school, on Sundays, games, team bonding stuff, yadadada. It's just a lot. Also, I'm challenging myself in school this year and taking two of the hardest classes in my school (APUSH and AP Art History), the first of which is so freaking time consuming and the second of which is also very time consuming. It's eating up all my spare time, and I've been studying for the SATs/PSATs as I'm taking the PSAT's in October and aiming for national merit scholar, the SATs soon after in December. Long story short, I want to focus on school this fall, which means I'm not going to be on FF a lot or write until at least probably late December. I might come back in November once my sport ends but we'll see. No promises._

 _Plus, I hate this chapter. I wrote it back in July, and have always meant to fix it, but never did. Gareth's section was too short, I didn't like Sky's, the career's conversation seemed bland. I didn't want to post it until I fixed it, but time is running thin, and I think you all deserved an update. I also have written the day of the games and the bloodbath, both of which I wrote before I went away in July, and I'll probably be posting those (one in October and one in November) to tide you all over. I will NOT be giving up on this story though. I have crazy things planned for the games (and after!) and I put way too much work into it to drop it. It will just be delayed._

 _I hope you all understand. I have big aspirations for college so I need to be focusing most of my time on that this year and really push myself. That means as little distractions as possible. I'll see you all for the last chapter before the bloodbath in probably about a month._

 _Thanks,_

 _paper :)_


	27. Day Of: Ready Or Not

_Launch: Ready or Not_

* * *

 _Winnifred "Freddie" Ellison, 16._

 _District Six Female._

* * *

She wakes up like it's every other day of her life, grumbling then slamming her hand down on the snooze button of her alarm clock. She's never been a morning person, even today when she _should_ be, because well, it could be her last day on the face of this earth. But she's not thinking about that right now, she's just thinking about how insanely tired she is and the fact that she was (now regretfully) up until past midnight last night, watching some cheesy Capitol late-night sitcom with Takei on his floor. Manisha didn't care to join them, and it didn't matter anyway, because Winnifred never invited her in the first place. She's far too serious for her liking. A buzzkill.

Drifting back to sleep, she's jolted up again by the sound of her alarm buzzing once again only a few minutes later. She slams her hand down again and the cycle repeats about five times, angry growling, banging of the alarm, and then a brief sleep before the alarm awakens her once more. She's about to press the snooze button for the sixth time when her mentor Buick slams open the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

"What in Panem's name are you doing?" he hisses, his eyes weary from lack of sleep.

"Trying to get my beauty sleep," she spits back, pressing the snooze button anyway and flopping her head back down on the pillow. She smiles at him like it's a joke, but he doesn't smile back. "I need it."

Her mentor snorts, looking her over. She can't see herself right now but according to what she's seen in the mirror on other mornings, her short and badly cut hair probably looks even more messy than normal, tangled and knotted and frizzy. Her eyes are most likely rimmed with dark bags, and she guesses there's a bit of drool hanging from her lips.

"You don't need to be beautiful to win. You need to eat and get some nutrients in you, and at the pace you're going, it looks like you'll have time to do neither. _Let's go_."

She disagreed with the beautiful part, because she's seen most of the victors. Not Buick, he's ugly, but a good sixty percent of them are at least good looking. The victor from seven. Four. One. Both from two. Hell, even Raleigh is alright.

"You're probably glad that beauty isn't a requirement then, because if it was, you wouldn't be here right now," she retorts back, a smile plastered on her face. "You're ugly as a piece of shit."

She can see Buick's nostrils fuming. "Watch your language."

Rolling her eyes, she flings the bedsheets of her half-naked body. She's only wearing an oversized shirt that hangs down to just above her knees, but if it were shorter, she wouldn't really care. She's never been the modest type anyway.

"Whatever. It's not like there are any children around. And the ones that are around can't hear me anyway."

She laughs at her joke, but apparently, Buick doesn't find it as funny as she did.

"You have five minutes to get dressed, then meet us in the kitchen for breakfast." Buick mutters emotionlessly, not giving her the satisfaction of even responding to her joke.

"Okay, Mr. Bossypants," she chuckles. "Whatever you say."

Unamused, he rolls his eyes then turns to leave. As soon as the door closes behind him, she runs forward and clicks the door locked, then jumps back in bed and closes her eyes, drifting back to sleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow. It's a weird talent of hers, she's able to fall asleep quickly wherever she is, no matter if she was completely awake a few minutes ago or if someone's screaming in the room beside her.

"Winnifred!" she hears again, but she doesn't know how much time has passed. Someone's banging on her door angrily, and she jolts up, quickly looking over at her alarm clock.

Shit.

It's been an hour.

"You better not be sleeping in there, or so help me Panem, I'm going to kill you right here and now!"

Flying out of bed, she swiftly pulls the nightshirt over her head and steps into her training suit, trying to slip it onto her body as quick as possible.

"I'm getting dressed!" she yells back.

"It takes you an hour to get dressed?"

"You're not a woman! You have no idea how long it takes to get ready! I have to do my hair, and put on makeup-"

"You don't wear makeup!" her mentor yelps from the opposite side of the door.

"I do now!" she screams back. Meanwhile, she's helplessly trying to zipper her training outfit, her hands not being able to bend that far behind her back. She looks more like a dog chasing their tail than anything else right now. Finally, her fingers find the zipper and are able to move it at least half of the way up, which is sufficient enough for her right now.

"Winnifred!"

"Buick!" she yells back with a laugh.

"Stop acting like a child!"

"You know I won't!"

She doesn't bother to brush her hair, just stroking the loose strands downward with the palms of her hands. There. Done. Turning toward the door, she opens it with a wide smile.

Buick isn't smiling on the other side.

"I don't see any makeup," he growls, blinking at her in annoyance.

"You never say that to a woman!" She yelps sarcastically, twisting her face into an aghast expression.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly classify you as a _lady_. Did you even brush your hair?"

She ignores his jab, stepping in front of him and looking around the vacant apartment building with wide eyes.

"Where is everybody?" she asks.

"Already heading down to the hovercraft."

"Has it left yet?"

"No," Buick replies. "It's waiting on you. Actually, everyone's waiting for _you_. Panem, the whole entire country, is waiting for _you_."

She smiles, heading over to the kitchen and grabbing an apple off of the counter. She can feel Buick's gaze follow her as she walks, hot and angry, annoyed and irritated.

"Well, don't you care that you're the last one?" he inquires as she bites into the apple. "That everyone's waiting on you and you don't even seem to have a sense of urgency?"

"No. I'm doing them a favor," she replies with a smile. "I'm giving them a few more minutes to live. Right?"

She laughs at her joke, but he doesn't. He just blinks at her wordlessly, then turns and heads toward the elevator. She follows, apple in hand, trying not to think about what nightmares await her ahead.

She's not ready, but then again, she's never been ready for anything in her life. That hasn't stopped her before though, and she hopes to hell it won't stop her this time.

* * *

 _Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Male._

* * *

He'll never be ready.

Biting his lip nervously, he feverishly clutches the sides of his seat as the hovercraft takes off. He's never flown before in his life, and never planned too, and has recently found out, being on the twelfth floor of the building, that he's deathly afraid of heights.

Meanwhile, North's laughing like crazy. They could both be dead in an hour, and she's _laughing_. _Laughing! But by now, did he really expect anything else from the one girl who he can't seem to ever get a good read on?_

"This is so fun!" she screeches happily as the hovercraft lifts into the sky. Of course, they can't see anything out of the blackened windows, but he knows they're in the sky. People aren't supposed to be this high. Only birds are. It's unnatural. This shouldn't be happening. It's just a recipe for disaster.

"We're going to die. We're going to die. We're going to die," the short boy repeats time and time again under his breath, his feet pressing down hard against the ground. But it's not really the ground. It's just a floor. The ground is who knows how many feet below him, and one burst of the engine and they could be flying down toward it, dead in a fiery inferno...

North stops laughing for a second and looks at him funny.

"You're scared of heights?" she gawks, narrowing her eyes at him. "Heights, of all things?

He doesn't respond. He just feels like he's going to be nauseous.

She chortles and swings her tiny, bony legs back and forth in her seat. His are glued to the ground, and he's trying so hard to convince himself that the floor isn't just a thin slab of metal but actually earth.

"Morty's scared of heights! Morty's scared of heights!" she chants, and out of the corner of his eye, Mortimer can see his stylist roll his eyes.

He hates it when she calls him that. _Morty._

It's what his little sister calls him, but he doesn't mention that. He also doesn't mention that North reminds him uncannily of her, the way she's always so happy when everything is falling to pieces around them, how she's so optimistic even when well, they could be dead in minutes. Their laughs are almost identical, as if...

He cuts himself off. North is not his little sister. And he can't think of her like that in the games, or it's going to get him killed.

He's stoic. He's removed. He's sly. He's going to trick people and slit their throats. He doesn't care for anyone else in the arena, especially not her. He's not attached. Not one bit.

Or at least, that's what he's telling himself.

"What are you, five?" he retorts, his voice shaky.

"Fourteen, actually," North replies with a grin.

"Well sometimes you act like you're five," Mortimer grumbles, frowning at her. "All the time, actually."

"Well, you act like you're _seventy-five_ ," North replies, not missing a beat. "Always so grumpy. Couldn't you just smile for once in your life?"

Mortimer twists his lips into a slight grin for a split second, then lowers them back down into a frown.

"There."

"That wasn't a smile!" she protests. "You have to hold it for at least three seconds!"

He holds it for three seconds, then lets it go.

"Do you feel better now?"

Mortimer nods, noticing he actually didn't feel as anxious or afraid as he did a moment ago when the hovercraft took off. "Actually, yeah, I do."

North grins. "See, I'm magical."

"More like delusional."

"More like inspiratical!"

He furrows his eyebrows. "That's not a word."

"How do you know?" she questions, placing her hands on her hips.

He shrugs. "I guess I don't."

As soon as those words flood out of his mouth, the hovercraft begins to descend. He grips the sides of the seats again as he feels his stomach drop, and a moment later they're on the ground. North has already unbuckled from her seat and is stretching out her short legs.

"Finally, we're here! I didn't know how much longer I could sit still!" she exclaims.

He unclips himself and stands much less enthusiastically than his district partner. The door to the hovercraft slides open almost as soon as he's out of his seat.

"Alright," his mentor says. "You two won't be seeing each other until the games after this, so if you have any last-minute strategies to go over or th—"

All of a sudden, the short boy feels a skinny pair of arms wrap around his torso. He yelps, and after getting over the initial shock of literally being grabbed, looks down.

North Brier is hugging him.

He can't find the strength to push her away, either. So, he just lets it happen, and maybe hugs her back a little too.

"It's okay," he whispers to her, channeling his inner-big brother. "You'll be okay."

She lets him go, then looks back up at him with wide eyes.

"Oh, no, I'm fine. That hug was for _you_."

Then, in natural unpredictable North-Brier-fashion, she turns and skips away, leaving him more confused than he was before.

And he'll never admit this to her either, but she was right. He needed that hug more than she did.

* * *

 _Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Ten Female._

* * *

She's ready.

Of course, one can never _really_ be ready for the Hunger Games, even the careers, but she has been surviving all her life, so she decides this time isn't any different. She doesn't think about the fact that she's still associated with the rebels in the Capitol's mind because her parents, whom she barely knew, and that she's twelve, and no one under the age of fifteen, let alone twelve, has ever survived the terrors of the arena before. She just tells herself that she is a survivor, and besides probably reading, surviving is what she does best.

The hovercraft lands smoothly, almost soundlessly. She doesn't even know they're on the ground until Braxton unstraps himself and stands from his seat, and this unnerves her slightly, as she always likes to know what's going on. The black tinted windows that don't let her see her surroundings don't exactly help that either.

The blonde older boy offers to help her unstrap. She scoffs at him and does it herself.

It's not like she's _five_. She may be the shortest tribute and have wide, deerlike eyes, but she's not a child. She's a fully functioning human being, and she wishes everyone would stop treating her like she's a little princess who can't even walk on her own without tripping over her two feet.

The door to the hovercraft glides open, and the two peacekeepers who accompanied them on the long flight step out into the launching bay. Braxton follows and Marguerite does too, her eyes instantly widening when she exits the vehicle. They're in some kind of underground launching bay with peacekeepers in white uniforms everywhere, buzzing around like bees in a hive.

She doesn't have too much time to look around though, for her stylist ushers her forward and through a set of double doors. Braxton enters through another. She loses him and wonders if this is the last time she'll ever see him. Probably not, but if it is, she's not sad. She never really got to know him save for a few infrequent exchanges, most of them ending with her saying something rude. Even if she did make the effort to be kind and get to know him better, she knows only one person can make it out alive. She wants it to be her. Friends only hinder that goal.

Also, she notices her mentor seems to have gone with Braxton. Probably to give him a few last-minute tips. He's probably already written her off as dead. Whatever. It's probably better that way, being underestimated. She'd rather be overlooked then targeted, like her district partner is. After Braxton got an 8, she heard the whispers that he was the careers' first target. After all, he did score higher than most of them did. Again, as long as it's not her, she doesn't give a rat's ass.

She follows a pair of peacekeepers and her stylist through a seat of narrow tunnels. They wind and turn like a maze would, and soon she's not able to remember which way she came from. Marguerite decides that they probably do this on purpose so if the tributes try to run, they'll just get lost.

Eventually they stop at a door. One of the peacekeepers turns a key and the lock clicks open, then he motions for her to go inside. The only person who follows her is the stylist, one of her least favorite people in the entire world. The pair of peacekeepers shut the door and linger outside.

"So what atrocious outfit am I going to be garbed in today? A dress? Oh, I know! Another cow costume?" Marguerite asks, her tone bitter as usual.

Her stylist's obviously fake smile falters, and she blinks her fake eyelashes at the young girl.

"Marguerite, how could you say something like that! The cow costume was lovely! You did look very cute. It earned you many sponsors. Everyone just thought you and Braxton were adorable!"

Marguerite rolls her eyes.

"I don't want to be cute. And I don't want to be liked by the disgusting people of the Capitol."

"Well that's the only way a little girl like you could ever win!" Her stylist, whose name she doesn't bother to remember coos. Lately, she's just been calling her Stultus, the Latin word for idiot. It's fitting for her stylist, who still considers her to be a cute little girl even after all this time.

"I can win other ways."

Stultus shakes her head, then reaches into the cabinet and pulls out a plain black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. It's actually not too bad, which surprises Marguerite. She guesses Stultus didn't design it, as the dummy couldn't even possibly begin to fathom how to make clothes that don't look like they belong on an ugly child's doll.

"Aw, I bet you can. I like that winning attitude. I bet you can go far, sweetheart," her stylist chortles, obviously fake. Marguerite can tell she's just treating her like a child, telling her lies so that she won't be scared. But she isn't.

She's no child, and if it takes winning the games for the Capitol to see that, then so be it. They're blind if they think she won't go down fighting.

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

She's ready.

So ready that she can barely contain her excitement, adrenaline coursing through her body like a drug, powerful and overtaking, sweeping over her like a thick fog. She's been waiting for this moment her entire life; everything has led up to this: everything. All her hard work has led her to this moment and for years it's always felt like a distant moment, but now it's here, it's finally here. She stares at the tube that will lead her up to the arena – her playground – in disbelief, wondering if she's dreaming.

She almost asks her stylist to pinch her.

Walking around the room that will serve as her passage between this world and the world she's been waiting to enter for forever, she runs her calloused fingers along the plain white wall. Her stylist looks at her a bit strange but bites his lip and chooses not to say anything, instead looking down and fiddling with her arena uniform as if it needed a last-minute adjustment.

It doesn't she knows, because it's _perfect_. Everything about this day is perfect. Her brother would have loved this so much.

Running her fingers along the wall, she eventually reaches the tube that will transport her up to the arena. She tries to look up through the glass to see if she can get a view of the arena, but it's obscured by a black film.

"No cheating," her stylist chuckles, his attention suddenly on her again.

Turning around to face him, Hana smiles. Well, she can't really do anything but smile right now because there is just so much joy in her she feels like she's about to explode with excitement.

"What do you think the arena is going to be?" she asks. Her hands twitch anxiously.

Her stylist shrugs. "I don't know. But I did hear it's going to be nothing like anyone's ever seen before. Apparently, there's going to be a crazy twist in the finale."

Hana's eyebrow perks. "Really?"

"That's just what I've heard," he replies. "Who knows if the stylist gossip is true though. It's usually not."

Hana's lips twist into an even larger smile. "Do you think it's going to be a jungle then? With temples full of traps! Or maybe a dessert? Or a city! A city would be so awesome! Oh, I'd love it if it were a forest too, but they've already done that. What about a desert? If you had to guess, what would you say it is?"

Her stylist looks a bit taken aback by her sudden burst of excitement, which she knows is abnormal, even for a career. But she's anything but normal. She's studied these games for her entire life and knows the ins and outs of every prior one. You could say she's a superfan. No other tribute has ever loved the games like she has, or at least, not with the same fascination she has with them.

"I said I have no idea. My guesses have always been wrong, so - "

She interrupts him without really even thinking. "Or how about a mountain? A mountain range? Hills? Flat plains? A town? A ghost town! An ocean? Islands? What about a – or wait, what do you think the twist at the end is going to be? Two victors? No weapons? What ab -"

Now it's her stylist who interrupts her. "Settle down, settle down. You'll find out soon enough. We only have a few minutes left, so if you'd not prefer to go out there naked, I'd recommend putting on your clothes now."

Hana nods vehemently, basically skipping over to her stylist and taking her arena uniform from his hands. She unabashedly strips down in front of him then steps into her outfit, consisting of a plain black shirt, shorts, and black sneakers. Flipping her long hair over her head, she ties it back into a high ponytail with a pink scrunchie the stylist reluctantly lets her keep.

"What, you think I could strangle someone with this thing?" she giggles as his smile fades upon seeing the hairpiece.

"These days I have no idea what careers are capable of," he chuckles, shaking his head back in forth. "But I'll let it slide. I don't think it would be very efficient, anyway."

She nods her head, then turns and looks in the mirror. While her outfit isn't anything special, she notices that she's more beautiful than ever – more than she was last night, during the chariots, or any time before in her life. She's practically glowing. No, she is glowing.

"Are you ready?"

She grins, turning around. "I was born ready."

Her stylist nods mutely and hands her a coin – the coin her girlfriend gave her the day she left. She flips it over, spotting the dragon, which is supposed to remind her of pride and strength. Which she has. She wasn't picked by the Capitolites as their predicted first place winner for nothing after all. She's studied for this for years, and no one is more prepared or hardworking as her. Yet, when she flips it over and spots the insect – which represents humbleness and conservativeness, she's reminded that it doesn't matter whether or not she was predicted to place first, there are still other formidable opponents out there. The other careers. Pilate and Freyja. Braxton and Coral. Victory's not a sure thing, but she's going to do everything in her power to make it as sure as possible. She's going to get home to Shuri, and she's going to live out her dream too. She'll have it all.

Sliding the coin in her pocket, she steps into the tube. A second later, the glass door slides closed behind her. She waves to her stylist cheerfully, and he waves back. Then she's lifted up into the air, and the room slowly disappears below her, and then it's dark as she continues to propel upward.

This is it.

This is everything she's been waiting for.

Nothing's going to stop her.

She's ready.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Hey everyone, I hope you liked this chapter! We're so close to the bloodbath I can just taste it!_

 _I took a little page from Elim's book in making this chapter, with the same startings/ending to most of the POVs. I thought it was a good way to show everyone's anticipation._

 _Life is still hectic, and school is still school. I'm still wicked busy, so don't expect anything for a while, probably at least until November. But I hope you all are having a good fall and a good start to your years!_

 _Anyway, since we're a chapter away from the bloodbath, anyone have some predictions?_

 _See you all next time for (hopefully) an exciting start to the games!_

 _paper :)_


	28. Bloodbath: Blackened

_Bloodbath: Blackened_

 _also: swearing everywhere and a hella long chapter, read at your own risk_

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

When she opens her eyes, all she can see is black.

The strange thing is that is isn't night. She knows it isn't because when she opens her eyes it stings, and particles like sand flood into her eye and closes shut tightly. Other tributes are screaming. Someone's crying. And everything's still black.

The countdown begins a moment later, numbers booming in her ears. _60\. 59. 58. 57._

They said no matter what the arena was, the plan was going to be the same. Rush the cornucopia and guard it, only attacking tributes that tried to take supplies from within. Despite not being able to see it, she uses the sound of other tribute's screams to locate where the center of the cornucopia is. Clay, Archie, and Valentine are hopefully smart enough to figure this too.

 _45\. 44. 43. 42._

She's still closing her eyes, the lids shut tightly. She clenches her fists together. For the first time during this whole process, she feels a pang of nervousness run through her veins. She thought she prepared for any arena, forests, oceans, deserts, grasslands and even cities, but she didn't prepare for this. She didn't prepare for not being able to see.

 _32\. 31. 30. 29._

A harsh wind rips against her clothes, making her shiver. It's cold. Her eyes are still shut.

 _27\. 26. 25. 24._

She's been waiting for this moment her entire life, but it doesn't feel like she thought it would. Adrenaline still courses through her body and she can barely stand still because she's shaking so much, but the excitement she had when she volunteered, arrived in the Capitol and performed her interview was gone. Maybe it's just underwhelming, not being able to see and all. She imagined this moment to be a lot different – she imagined eyeing other tributes and smiling viciously, not standing here with her eyes closed as they all cried. They were supposed to cry later, as she's killing them.

 _22\. 21. 20. 19._

Not now. They weren't supposed to cry now.

 _18\. 17. 16. 15._

She doesn't even know whose next to her. For all, she knows it could be Pilate and Freyja and she could be in a lot of trouble.

 _14\. 13. 12. 11._

She takes a deep breath, inhaling the black dust. It makes her cough. She notices other people are coughing too, choking on air. She still doesn't know what the black powder is. For all she knows, it could be cyanide and she could be slowly dying now, her fatal mistake already made. But they're not going to kill her that easy.

"Ten," she mutters, echoing the words of the loudspeaker. Maybe if she says the numbers, it'll all feel more real.

"Nine."

This is it.

"Eight."

She's here.

"Seven."

She's finally here.

"Six."

All her life has been leading up to this moment, this one moment.

"Five."

This one, single moment.

"Four."

Her brother would be proud of her. This was his dream, after all.

"Three."

To see her in the Hunger Games. To see her win.

"Two."

She's not going to let him down. She's not going to let Shuri down. She's not going to let herself down.

"One."

She's going to win.

"Let the 12th Hunger Games commence!"

When she jolts open her eyes, the black powder is gone.

And she runs.

* * *

 _Archer "Archie" Caspian, 17._

 _District Four Male._

* * *

No one expected this. Probably not even Hana Marko, the _fucking_ Hunger Games extraordinaire, predicted victor, and the girl who trained for the Hunger Games since she was like five, probably.

Naturally, he runs when the gong goes off. It's the plan, and everyone knows he doesn't like plans, but when everything else is going to shit around him, he decides it probably best to stick with what they went over before because he's not ready to die quite yet.

The scene around him is desolate. Everything in the vicinity is black and dead as if it had been scorched by a raging fire. Dead trees stand like posted soldiers in a lost battle, their branches leafless and shriveled. They're black, too. Remains of buildings also scatter the landscape, falling and broken, not even looking much like buildings anymore, but ruins from an ancient time instead. The ground is dusty and dark, more like a desert painted black than anything else. The sky is black too and there is no sun, only clouds that are so dark they look like they're going to burst with rain at any second. Far in the distance stands a crumbling city. It looks like they've been dumped in the middle of a post-apocalyptic world. Everything except the cornucopia, that is.

It looks out of place, a golden dome in a desolate world.

The black dust is gone, for now. Little flecks of it still litter the ground beneath his feet as he runs toward the cornucopia, which gleams gold despite there being absolutely no sun in sight. The dome full of supplies has been placed in the middle of a crumbling road with abandoned cars in all directions, decaying rail guards at the sides. There are ruins on the street too, old concrete slabs and bricks scattered around like some giant just tossed them in random directions. Above them an ominous bridge looms, the part above the cornucopia missing. He almost trips on a massive pothole as he sprints toward the golden semicircle, the only thing in the arena that looks like he expected it to.

 _Why couldn't they just have a forest like they did most years?_

That'd be nice.

But then again, a lot of things would be nice right now. Beer, drugs, his boyfriend, and maybe not being in the middle of an apocalyptic war zone.

The District Seven boy is the first person to arrive at the cornucopia, beating him and Hana narrowly.

"I got this one!" he yells to her, and his ally nods, ducking away in search of her weapon.

On the other hand, he grabs a knife, the first weapon he sees. Then, he runs inside after the boy; however, his opponent is fast, and by the time Archie spots him again, his arms are already full of supplies. Archie sees a sword, some bags, and a few knives in the District Seven boy's hands. He can't use that all himself; he's probably collecting them for his allies.

The boy's eyes go wide when he sees him, but Archie doesn't hesitate, leaping toward him and tackling his body to the ground. The young tribute squeaks as they tumble to the floor, and Archie grabs his hands and pins them to the floor, just above his head. But the boy knows what to do, jolting his knee upward and hitting Archie square in the groin. The career stifles a groan and clutches the spot where the District Seven boy hit him, letting go of his grip on his arms. The boy takes this as a chance to escape and leaps to his feet, collecting a few of the weapons he previously had and making a run for it.

Archie stands to his feet, grabbing throwing knives off the ground beside him. He starts after the boy, hurling the knives in his general direction. Most miss entirely, but one hits him in the back. However, the boy doesn't stop, continuing to run despite the fact that there's a knife lodged in him.

 _Tough kid._ He wonders if he's going to be that strong when he dies.

The career is about to run after him when he hears Hana yell.

"Archie! Let him go! We need you here!"

Whipping around, he sees Coral's alliance running toward the cornucopia, diving in each direction in an attempt to throw off the careers guarding it. Winnifred and Takei are somewhere in the mix too, and so is Solomon. Hana has grabbed a weapon from inside the temple and holds it in her hands, the sword gleaming in the bright midday light. When Archie doesn't move, Hana widens her eyes and gives him a look that says: _don't just stand there, go and kill someone._

He nods his head, then turns, knives in hand.

 _Are you ready to kill, Archie?_ he asks himself. _Are you ready to take someone else's life, another child's?_

He already knows the answer to that question.

 _No, he's not._

He may have trained for years for this, but all the training in the world can't make him ready to kill someone else. He has to anyway though, that is, if he doesn't want to get killed himself.

He volunteered to make his mother happy, to show her that he could be something, something good. Not some deadbeat kid who drinks his life away, doing nothing but drugs and running off with his boyfriend.

 _Are you happy now, mom?_

 _Are you happy I almost killed a kid, someone else's son?_

 _Are you happy I'll have to kill other people's sons if I want to make it home to you?_ To make you happy, I have to make other people sad. _Isn't that a little odd mom? Isn't it?_

It's a twisted world they live in, it really is.

* * *

 _Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Male._

* * *

The moment he hears the words "let the 12th Hunger Games commence!" he's off running, sprinting away from whatever awful thing is going to happen at the cornucopia. Murder. Death. Bloodshed. He doesn't wait for North or Bruno – both of them, especially the prior, will no doubt be able to take care of themselves. North lived on the streets for years after all, this shouldn't be a challenge for her. Or at least, that's what he tells himself to stop the guilty feeling bubbling up in his chest.

 _She'll be fine without you. Don't worry about her. Forget about that hug. She's still the annoying girl she always was. You're looking out for number one. Not her._

His eyes sting from whatever that thing was in the air, and everything's blurry, so he doesn't see the guardrail in front of him as he runs. A second later his legs hit something hard, and he flips over the railing, tumbling off the road and onto the hard ground beneath it. He yelps as he feels one of his ribs snap as his chest pounds against the hard earth.

Sitting up straight, he feels dizzy. He tries to stand but hits his head on a hard piece of concrete hanging over him. He falls back down on the ground again, this time on his back. Touching his head, he feels a warm gooey substance flowing from his forehead, and when he looks at his hand, it's covered in fresh blood.

Now he really feels sick.

He blinks. It looks like he landed in some kind of pothole. Above him is the road he was standing on a minute ago, and a few feet away is the crevasse he fell into. The hole is about four feet high and four feet across as well. A faint stream of light cascades in from the hole, and if he wasn't in the middle of what was about to be an absolute war zone, he'd think that this would actually be a pretty good hideout for the games.

He's about to crawl out when he sees a pair of feet jump in, almost giving a heart attack.

This is it. This is where he dies. In a hole. A goddamn hole. How fitting for a boy from District Twelve, the biggest hellhole on the planet. Besides, well, probably this hole.

"That was funny," the person who jumped into the whole giggles, and he instantly knows who it is, because only one person could laugh during a time like this. "You just flipped right over like you were some kind of acrobat."

Of course North found him. _After that, he didn't really think It'd be that easy to get rid of her, right?_

Crouching down, she pops her head into the cavern.

"Ooh, you don't look too good," she mutters, shaking her head side to side. "Here, I'll help."

Ripping off a piece of her clothing, she leans forward and attempts to put a temporary bandage on Mortimer's head. However, before she can touch him, he swats her hand away.

"Don't touch me."

She frowns. "Sorry. I didn't know you'd be so grumpy. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?"

"Of course I did!" he yelps. "We're in the Hunger Games! Who can be happy at a time like this?"

"Me," she chortles, and he rolls her eyes. He knew she was going to say that.

"Let's just get out of here," Mortimer grumbles and tries to stand up again, completely forgetting about the low ceiling. He hits his head again. North breaks out into a fit of laughter.

"It's not funny!"

"Yes, it is!" North exclaims, then pokes her head back out of the hole. She looks around for a second then pops it back in.

"Coast is clear."

Mortimer nods and hops out of the whole after her, then breaks into a sprint. However, when they're about 100 yards or so from the cornucopia he stops and turns back toward her.

"Shouldn't we wait for Bruno?" he asks.

"No. He's not our ally," North replies, giving him a look of disgust.

"And you're not mine either," Mortimer retorts.

"But you're following me, aren't you?"

He shakes his head, then begins to walk in the opposite direction. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you were! Don't deny it! You like me!"

"I never said that!"

"You never _had_ to say it," she retorts with a smile. "I just know."

He ignores her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small figure rushing toward them, and he's relieved to see it's Bruno. In his hand, he's carrying various weapons, but North doesn't seem to care.

"Come on, if we leave now, we can still lose him."

Mortimer rolls his eyes. "Why don't you like him?"

"Because he always acts weird around me, like he knows some kind of secret I don't. And no matter how much I tell him to go away, he doesn't."

Mortimer narrows his eyes at her. "Hmm, sounds like someone I know."

She raises her hands in defense. "It's different! You actually like me! I hate him!"

"Well, he has supplies, so you better act nice. And I don't like you. You're just an annoying little gnat who won't go away so I've learned to just embrace it rather than fight it." Mortimer hisses through his teeth, then turns around and faces Bruno with a wide smile.

"Hey. Thanks for grabbing the supplies," he chortles happily. The young boy smiles then reaches behind him and grabs something out of his back. Mortimer and North jump back in horror when they both realize it's a knife, covered in his blood.

"I got you something too, North. I know how much you like knives," the young boy says, somehow managing to smile despite all the pain he was probably in.

North looks at him like he's a crazy man and takes it reluctantly, then begins to examine it like it's some ancient artifact.

"Are we ready to go?" Bruno asks.

"One more thing," North murmurs, then grabs Mortimer's shirt and wipes the blood on Bruno's knife onto it. He tries to pull back but it's too late, and his black shirt is already covered with a thick layer of blood.

"You're disgusting," he spits, looking down at his shirt with wide-eyes.

"At least you didn't give me a knife covered in your own blood."

That was true.

* * *

 _Beckett Lock, 14._

 _District Eight "Female"._

* * *

They exactly don't know why they're running toward the cornucopia, but they are.

Maybe it's because they want to be brave for once in their life and prove to themselves that they're not just a scared little kid, or maybe it's the adrenaline rush they're still on from coming out to not just their allies, nor just their family – but to the whole world. It's hard to feel an ounce of bravery after that. Still, this is something completely uncharacteristic of them, something they'd never do.

Well, that was the old Beckett. This is the new Beckett, and they're out, they're strong, and they're brave.

Nothing's going to stop them. Nothing.

They can see their allies running on the side of them, charging the cornucopia. Coral, the girl that's been somewhat of an older sibling for them in these games, gives them a giant smile. They try to return it but find that it's hard to twist their lips into a smile. They may be being brave right now, but it doesn't mean they're happy and optimistic too. That's too big of a step. Being brave is enough for them right now. Hopefully content will come later.

But then they blink and Coral's gone. Looking at the other side, they can't see Braxton, and Sky is too far ahead for him to save them if something goes wrong. All of a sudden, a deep panic sets in.

 _What if their allies ditched them?_

 _What if they hate them for being different? What if they were lying to them about being proud, and really were just going to leave them in the middle of the cornucopia when they got the chance? What if-_

They stop themselves.

That's the old Beckett.

This is the new Beckett, and they're confident. They're fearless. They don't care if their allies chicken out because they're not going to. They're going to stick it through and face their problems head-on, just like they did on stage when they told the world their biggest, deepest, darkest secret.

So when they see Hana, sword in hand, they don't turn to run away.

They take a deep breath and tell themselves they have this – they got this – she may be big, she may be trained, but they're Beckett, and they're unstoppable.

She smiles as Beckett runs toward her, flashing her sword in the dim light like it's a toy. It's shiny and silver, like those kitchen knives their mother used to tell them to stay away from so many years ago.

They're not staying away from them anymore. Fear will never hold them back again.

Yet, as the blade of her sword cuts through their skin, sharp and searing, hurting more than anything they ever imagined, they remember that there was a reason their mother told them to not play with sharp objects, or overestimate their skills.

There's a reason to be scared of some things, like knives. Like careers. Like the Hunger Games.

Bravery only goes so far, after all.

* * *

 _Coraline "Coral" Seaton, 17._

 _District Four Female._

* * *

Her and Sky share an excited grin upon entering the cornucopia.

 _They did it! Their plan worked!_

She's about to grab the spear off the ground when all of a sudden, a skinny, short girl from Eleven, whose name she never bothered to remember, cuts in front of her.

Coral hisses and kicks at the girl's side as she bends down to take the knife, knocking her to the ground. While she's not necessarily the strongest tribute, her opponent is tiny, and she is easily thrown to the floor, yelping in surprise.

Quickly, Coral reaches for the knife, but the girl is fast, and she grabs the handle before Coral can. Then, she lifts the knife and points it threateningly at the District Four girl.

"Don't move," she commands, but her voice is quivering, and Coral can tell she's more afraid than she's trying to let on.

"Just give me the knife and no one gets hurt," Coral demands confidently.

The girl shakes her head. "No, I need it," she mutters quietly.

"For what?" Coral retorts, narrowing her eyes. "I can see your arm shaking. You're tiny. You can't even cut through anyone's skin with that if you tried."

With that, she drops her arm onto the ground, the knife still held fast in her hand.

"Well I saw you throwing spears during training," the small girl retorts, her tongue quicker than Coral thought it would be for someone of her quiet disposition. "I don't think you exactly need it either."

Coral growls. "Just give it to me, or I'm going to take it from you by force."

For a second, Coral thinks that the girl is going to hand it over to her, extending her arm out as if to offer it over. But then she slashes it in Coral's direction, missing her body entirely.

Jutting her arm out, the District Four girl reaches for the knife. She has no problem prying it from the grip of the screaming girl, who she realizes now is as weak as a doe and probably couldn't even lift a stick if she tried.

She's about to thrust it down onto the girl's body when out of nowhere, two strong hands push her to the side. She catches herself before she falls, but the spear clatters out of her hand and onto the floor. Twisting her neck around, she tries to look to see who shoved her, but before she can, she feels someone else leap onto her back. Yelping in surprise, she attempts to buck the tribute off but finds that she can't, as their arms are wrapped tightly around her neck.

They begin to tighten, and she finds that she can't breathe. They have her in a chokehold.

She tries to yell for Sky, but all that comes out is a frightened, muffled scream.

"Yeah, Takei!" the person who shoved her yells. "Get her!"

The boy on her back, who upon putting two and two together, realizes is Takei, laughs awkwardly. She tries to throw him off again but his arms are really tightly wound around her, like a monkey clinging to a tree.

She tries something else, quickly spinning around in a circle. The boy on her back still doesn't budge. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see a girl with an ax approaching slowly, her crooked teeth curved into a grin.

Instantly, her face goes white.

Knowing she has to do something fast, Coral flops herself down onto her back, hoping if she can't knock Takei off her back, she can squish him off. As they collide with the ground, she can hear a crunch under her, and when Takei lets out a painful scream, she knows that did the trick.

His arms release and Coral takes a massive breath of relief.

Yet, it might be too late. Looming over her is Winnifred, the athletic girl from Six, ax in hand. Her eyes widen as Winnifred swipes the ax at her face, and she clenches her eyes closed, bracing for impact.

But it never comes.

Instead, Winnifred's now the one screaming, and her ax clatters to the ground, only inches to the left of Coral's head. Jolting open her eyes, she sees Sky standing over the District Six girl, yanking a silver knife right out of her shoulder.

"Freddie!" Takei, screams, but it's too late.

Blood splatters onto Coral's face, droplets landing on her dry, cracked lips. She licks them clean, and they taste metallic, almost bitter.

Meanwhile, Winnifred collapses onto all fours, coughing up red-laced spit. Behind her, she can hear Takei moan in pain as he crawls toward Winnifred in a vain attempt to try to help her. The other girl, the skinny, short one, has disappeared into the darkness, probably to hide. Whatever the reason, she's gone now, and probably won't be coming back.

She stands, gasping for breath. For one of the first times in her life, she finds that she has no words to say. She's always been the talkative one – the one people tell to shut up, to stop talking because she's so loud they can't think. But now – now - she has no words.

Sky senses this. "You alright?"

She nods mutely, her eyes wide.

"Let's get the hell out of here then. This place is giving me the creeps."

* * *

 _Freyja Abbott, 18._

 _District Three Female._

* * *

Pilate is the fakest, most manipulative liar to ever roam the face of this earth.

He talks big, but when it comes down to it, he doesn't even want to charge the cornucopia, let alone kill anyone. He claimed he made too many enemies and if he went in there, there was no way he was making it out. So instead, _she's_ the one who has to get all the supplies, and _she's_ the one who has to do all the work. She originally said no, but then he told her if she didn't want to do what he said, she didn't have to be in the alliance.

And she gave up everything to be here. Her alliance. Her friend. The only person she trusts here. She's not going to let it slip that easy.

She's still doing what she wants though. She made this choice. Pilate didn't manipulate her. She knows what she's doing.

So here she is, standing on her platform, waiting for the perfect moment to charge. She sees it when her old allies storm the golden dome, trying to confuse the careers by running in multiple directions. It works pretty well, and Coral and Sky manage to get inside. She smiles smugly, as it was her plan in the first place. She really is a genius.

Sprinting toward the dome, she slides in between the distracted Clay, who is chasing Solomon. Archer is just staring dumbfoundedly at the scene happening in front of him. The tributes in Winnifred's alliance are the only other tributes who seemed to have stayed, and everyone else either fled or clings to the edges of the road, gathering backpacks and meeting up with their allies.

Then all of a sudden, the wind picks up again and the black dust comes back, swirling around them and enveloping everything in absolute obscurity.

She's running still, but she's lost her sense of direction, and black is everywhere. Her foot steps on something squishy as she runs, and when she touches the bottom of her shoe, a sticky substance clings to it. She slips her finger into her mouth and licks it.

It's bitter and metallic.

It's blood.

She feels like she's going to puke.

Suddenly, she feels her body hit something hard and fleshy, and then she springs backward, almost falling onto her butt. Her knees buckle and they catch her though, thankfully keeping her on her feet. However, the thing she bumped into wasn't so lucky, and she can hear it hit the ground, a loud thumping noise echoing in her ears as its body collides with the hard earth. She has no doubt now it's a tribute. As it falls, whatever it was holding scatters to the ground, clanking and clattering. Weapons.

She bends down and picks one up, and though she can't see, it feels like a knife.

The tribute in front of her tries to stand, but before it can, Freyja jumps forward and tackles onto it's back, pinning it down to the ground with the sheer weight of her body. She stabs and stabs and stabs at its flesh. The anonymous tribute screams and then goes limp, and she can hear its ribs crack as she continues to stab at them despite the fact that its screams have stopped and she's the only one screaming now.

When the dust clears a minute later, she realizes she's staring right into Sky's cold, dead, lifeless eyes.

Oh god.

 _Oh god god god god god_

this

can't

be

happening

She screams.

Then, everything goes black again.

* * *

 _Braxton "Brax" Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

He watches right before his eyes as the girl from Two slashes her oddly-shaped sword down Beckett's limber body, killing them with one simple, smooth, effortless swipe of her hand. It was almost too easy. Their ally doesn't even have a moment to scream before they're sliced open, collapsing to the ground limply, lying face first in a pool of their own blood.

He pauses dead in his tracks, his eyes wide with terror.

A day ago he had seen his ally laugh as they came out to the world. They'd been happy – gleeful even. Now, they'll never laugh again. They'll never smile. They'll never get to be the person they probably waited so long to be. They'll just be some memory that will eventually fade to nothingness, just like the cows he slaughters every day back at home.

But they're not a cow, they're a person.

It's awful, but if he wants to not end up like them, he needs to move on and find a weapon. He's about to continue running when he sees the career girl look up at him and smile. It's a nice smile, and if they weren't in the Hunger Games, if they met on the street or in school, he'd think it was even friendly. Like she wanted to get to know him more – like she wanted to be his friend.

He doesn't know what makes him more frightened, that twisted, sick smile, or the child lying in front of him in a pool of their own blood.

Probably the smile, because he knows what she's thinking.

 _You're next._

Hana explodes off the ground, hurdling herself over Beckett's dead body. Braxton doesn't wait for a second either, turning to flee. He sees Coral and Sky running toward him with weapons in their hand, and sprints over to them, hoping his speed will get him to his allies before Hana gets to him.

Then, suddenly, the wind picks up and the black dust that was swirling around them earlier makes a reappearance. This time though, he's glad, as it gives him cover from the crazy girl on his trail, and hopefully, if it stays around long enough, he'll lose her too. He can hear Hana's footsteps slow behind him, and he knows that she's smart enough not to fight him in the darkness, because one can never know who they're fighting if they can't seem them. For all they know, it could be one of their allies.

"Braxton!" Coral yells, and he heads toward her voice, eventually finding her in the blackness.

She hands him his machete.

"Thanks," he whispers gratefully.

"Don't mention it," she replies back. "Seen Sky?"

He shakes his head. "Wasn't he with you?"

"Yeah, but I lost him. I hope he's alright."

Braxton nods reassuringly, though realizes that she can't see. "Yeah, I bet he's fine. He's a smart guy, he can take care of himself."

"I hope so," Coral mutters. "He saved me back there, in the cornucopia. Winnifred was about to smash an ax onto my face when he came up from behind and stabbed her. I owe him big time. He could have left me back there – it was 3-to-2, and Winnifred and Takei are both pretty strong. I'm glad he didn't betray me."

Braxton smiles. "I wouldn't think he would. I definitely wouldn't. We're allies – we're like family in this game."

Coral laughs weakly. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It's nice to think about it that way and know that there's someone who has my back here. It makes it feel a bit more normal.

All of a sudden, they hear a scream. Both turn in its direction abruptly, and a pang of nervousness runs through Braxton. _Is that Sky?_

Coral seems to be thinking the same thing because her breath seems to stop as well.

The screaming stops abruptly.

"Do you think—" he begins, but Coral cuts him off.

"No, it can't be," she murmurs optimistically. "You said it yourself, he's smart. He wouldn't fight someone in the dark."

He nods his head, thinking about how easily his mind and confidence wavered. It scares him a bit, how quickly his mind changed.

The dust clears a moment later, and he looks around for Sky, a bit nervous. However, he can't find him. All he sees is Hana running toward them, the same crazed expression on her face.

"Coral!" he screams, grabbing her arm and turning to run.

On the other side of them is Archie, knives raised and ready to throw. They both stop dead in their tracks, their eyes wide.

They're cornered.

His ally lets out a frightened shriek.

"BRAXTON! What are we going to d—"

She's cut off as Braxton grabs her wrist, twists her around, and using all his strength, hurls her in Hana's direction. Hana tries to jump back but she's not quick enough, and the two girls collide into each other, both yelping in shock.

Turning around, the only thing he can see on Archie's face is shock.

He doesn't wait long enough to see what Hana or Coral's face looks like, because he's running for dear life, not daring to look back.

When he hears a cannon behind him, he doesn't dare look back either.

He doesn't need Coral to ask him what to do. He already knows.

He's going to survive.

Again, it's crazy how quickly his mind can change.

* * *

 _Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Male._

* * *

He's not hiding because he's scared—no, he's hiding because he's _smart_. There's a big difference. He's not scared of anything anymore, certainly not Golden Boy, Worst-Holiday-Ever, Little-Miss-Know-It-All, and the redhead who is _barely_ a career, but he knows that together, they might be enough to take him down. Might. He's still the strongest and smartest tribute here by a mile. But there's a small chance they could kill him, and this early in the games, he's not willing to take that chance.

Plus, if Freyja is stupid enough to do his dirty work, he's not going to stop her. She's such a tool, and he's going to use her like Draco used him.

She disappears from his view as the strange black dust swirls up and envelops the cornucopia again, and he doesn't see her again until moments later, where she is standing over Sky with a bloody knife, stabbing at his body and screaming like a madwoman. Then, a second later, she falls over too, right onto his bloody body.

Ick. That's not going to clean up well.

He rolls his eyes in annoyance. He knew she was too good to be true. Someone that desperate to join the careers probably didn't have any skills of their own. However, it looks like she's not dead, as there's no arrow or knife impaled anywhere in her and she couldn't have just fallen randomly like that, out of nowhere. She must have fainted.

"Fuck this," he mutters to himself, then leaps out of his hiding spot and sprints toward Freyja. While he may not like to admit it, he needs her. She's stupid enough to do things like run into the cornucopia, and with all the enemies he's made already, someone has to keep watch at night. He's planning on winning this thing, and he can't do that if he's not sleeping.

Almost immediately, Valentine spots him, her lips curving into a giant smile.

It's only then he notices that she wasn't doing anything _other_ than looking for him.

"Clay, I found him!" she yells to her district partner, who is ominously standing over the District Five boy with his sword, ready to strike the killing blow. However, upon hearing Valentine's voice, he turns away and the frail boy gets up and runs, sprinting toward his sister who has two bags in hand and looks absolutely petrified.

He grunts in annoyance as the District One pair runs toward him, meeting him about one-fourth of the way between his hiding spot and the cornucopia. They stand in front of him, blocking his path to Freyja.

"Looks like this is the end of the line for you," Clay smirks, pointing his sword right at his chest. "Any final regrets before we tear you to shreds?"

Valentine flexes her cat claws and grins like a madwoman. "Maybe he'll beg for us not to make it hurt. Normally, that'd be the case, but with you, since you're such a shitty person, I think you deserve a shitty death. It'll make things even."

They both laugh.

Pilate frowns. "I wouldn't underestimate me."

Clay snickers. "I don't see a weapon, but th—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence, for the next thing he knows Pilate lunges toward him, tackling him to the ground. Pilate knows that's not the fair way to fight – careers are taught from a young age to fight fair and to wait until everyone's ready. But he's not your average career, and he doesn't give a shit about rules or fighting etiquette. The only thing that playing fair has done for him is hurt him even more. _Draco didn't play fair, so why should he?_

Clay lets out a grunt as he collides with the hard pavement, dropping his sword onto the ground. Pilate rolls over and reaches to grab it, but sharp claws rake against his back, and he recoils, stifling a scream. Valentine kicks the sword away, and it spins away from the three of them, out of his reach.

He's not giving up yet though. Swinging his feet around, he kicks at Valentine's ankles. She yelps and falls to the ground too, but catches herself before she falls on her face. Clay is still on the ground, gasping for air. Pilate took the wind out of him on purpose, as it normally takes a minute or two to recover from it. That's all he needs to get Freyja and get out.

Standing to his feet, he leaves the two District One tributes in his dust as he sprints toward Freyja. However, he's surprised to see Hana and Archie already there, the prior holding her sword to Freyja's throat. She's awake now, and looks completely petrified, her eyes as wide as a deer in the headlights.

"If you try anything, we kill her," Hana announces, staring at him with a dark, challenging, I win gaze.

"And you think I care?" Pilate questions, narrowing his eyes back at her. At this point, Valentine and Clay are behind him, weapons drawn. He's surrounded.

 _Shit._

Hana brings her sword closer to his ally's neck. He can see a little trickle of blood streaming from the spot now, and Freyja's face is completely white.

"You came back for her, so you must care," Hana retorts.

"Well, I don't."

"Then you wouldn't mind if we kill her," Clay murmurs from behind him. "That is if you really don't care."

Pilate doesn't flinch.

If anything, he smiles.

"I don't mind. I don't mind at all."

* * *

 _Luna Nyguen, 17._

 _District Five Female._

* * *

For a moment, for a single split second, she finds that her positivity has completely fleeted, and as the tall, muscular boy from One stands over the shaking body of her brother, sword in hand, that maybe there is no hope for him, and he's going to die, and she's going to die too, and none of them are going to get the happy ending they so desperately want because maybe there are no happy endings in Panem.

But then it's gone, disappeared as quickly as it came. Solomon's alive, and he's running toward her, weapons in hand. She smiles and hugs him, and everything is good in the world again, or at least, it is temporarily.

"I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay," he repeats over and over again as he stands in her arms, though she's not quite sure if he's trying to convince her or himself more.

She realizes that this is the first hug they've given each other in years.

It feels foreign, scary and wonderful all at the same time.

After a minute, he separates himself from her and looks down at the two bags in her hands that she collected while he ran inside the cornucopia. She hasn't checked their contents yet but they're both rather heavy, so she guesses they're filled with good things that will help them survive.

Then she sees the blood on Solomon's arms.

Her eyes widen. "A-are you alright?"

He nods. "I'm fine. All that matters is that you're not hurt. And you're not hurt, right?"

She shakes her head mutely. She did have a near encounter with the girl from Nine over a bag, who hissed at her and told her to drop it or she'd kill her. Luna immediately let the girl take the bag and ran to find another.

"Good," Solomon replies. "Let's go then."

They both turn away from the cornucopia and begin to run, though it's more of a slow jog. Luna's still a bit shaken up from almost watching her brother die right before her eyes, and she finds that her legs aren't working as well as usual. However, after rounding a few buildings, she finds that they're working fine again.

But apparently, they're not doing a good enough job, because when she looks back, she sees a lone figure following them. She ignores it the first time, hoping it'll turn off the path and go find a hiding spot. However, when she looks back about five minutes later, it's still following them, closer this time. In the dim light, she can't pick out who it is.

"Sol," she whispers, tapping him on the shoulder.

"What?" he hisses.

"I think we have a trail," she murmurs, turning back and pointing to the figure.

His eyes widen.

"Just keep walking. If it comes near us, I'll kill whoever it is. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

She nods and tries to smile, though she's finding it harder to do with every passing minute.

* * *

 _Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District One Female._

* * *

When the words "I don't mind," come out of Pilate's mouth, she decides once and for all that he's the biggest, most selfish douchebag ever to reside in Panem, ever. It takes everything in her not to march up and kill him right there, but she knows he's dangerous and right now, they have the advantage, so they have to play their cards right. Which means she needs to hold back. Still, she can't help but flex her claws and imagine them digging into his flesh, drawing blood.

Once she's done with him, there will be one more bully off this earth. She'll do the world a favor.

Plus, when she kills him, everyone will be talking about her. She can see the headline already.

 _Youngest Career Ever Takes Out Strongest Tribute in the Games._

There will be no way her parents will be able to ignore her after that.

But then, just as Hana is about to press the blade of her sword deeper into Freyja's throat, Freyja makes her move.

"I guess I just have to save myself now if you won't do it!" Freyja howls defiantly. With a triumphant scream, she lurches her elbow backward and hits Hana right in the ribs. The District Two girl yelps in surprise and is jolted rearward, dropping her sword onto the ground in the process. Freyja swerves around, takes the sword off the ground, and is about to break into a sprint, but Hana reacts, quickly extending her arm out toward Freyja and grabbing her by the wrist.

Valentine growls. She knows they could kill Freyja and Pilate right now easy – it's 4 vs. 2, basic math, but Hana said that in past games, the careers that have done well have kept their numbers through the bloodbath. They need to be patient and wait for the right moment to strike. Valentine hates it, but she knows her ally is right.

"Give me the sword," Hana bellows, glaring at Freyja with narrowed eyes as she pulls her closer. "Or we'll take it from you by force."

"You're going to kill me anyway, aren't you? So what's the point?" Freyja asks back, her eyes narrowed. Meanwhile, Pilate stands in the middle of them all, unarmed. He can't move – he has no weapon, and nowhere to go. He's at their mercy now.

"It'll hurt less if you cooperate," Valentine retorts, one eye still on Pilate, who was still frozen in place.

Freyja shakes her head. "I don't want a _fucking_ consolation prize."

"Yeah, you heard the girl," Pilate laughs. "We're not here for a consolation prize."

"Shut up," Valentine growls at him, pointing her claws in his direction. "You don't have a choice, because I have eyes, and from what I can see, it's 4-to-2. Basic math. We win."

Valentine, Archie, and Clay step closer, weapons ready.

Then, with a triumphant growl, Freyja yanks her wrist out of Hana's grip and frees herself. Before she has a chance to use the sword, Archie flies forward to tackle her to the ground, but Pilate quickly sticks his foot out and trips him. The large boy falls to the ground with a loud thump, and before Valentine or Clay can move toward him, Freyja plunges the sword right into Archie's back. His limbs jolt outward as if he had just been electrocuted, then his body falls limply to the ground. Before Freyja has a chance to take the sword out of his back, Pilate grabs her by the neck of her shirt and yanks her away from the sea of careers.

Valentine hisses, whipping around. To her surprise, neither Hana nor Clay make a move after them. She's the only one running, her legs pumping faster than they ever have before. Adrenaline surges through her body, filling her with rage. This happens to her very rarely, usually, she's very calm headed, but sometimes, on a rare occasion, when she's mad or angry enough, she lets her emotions lead her.

She's going to kill him.

She's going to make him pay for pushing them around during training.

She's going to make a fool out of him and show the world what an idiot he really is.

She doesn't let bullies win.

Ever.

"Valentine!" she can hear Clay yell after her. "Let him go! We need you back here! People are still in the cornucopia! They don't have any supplies, they'll die out there in their own time!"

Turning around, she sees that no one is running after her.

 _Cowards._ This was the best shot they were going to get at him, and they blew it. They let him go. But she's not going to blow that shot.

"Valentine! Get back here! Stick to the plan, remember?" Hana yelps.

She doesn't listen. She's almost caught him, she's only feet away. She can feel her claws digging into his back she's so close. And he's weaponless. He can't hurt her. She's got this in the bag.

Leaping forward, she springs off the ground like a lion would when it has closed in on its prey. She rakes her cat claws down his back, and he whips around in surprise, growling like an angry wolf.

Then, everything happens so fast.

She sees the usually sharp rock in his hand, but it's too late. He jolts his hand forward and jabs it into her eye, and for a second, all she can feel is a searing red pain pulsing. Then he rips it back out and she screams louder than she ever has, louder than when she found out her sister was dead, louder than when she realized that her parents were dead to her, too.

Someone yells her name.

She falls onto her knees, shrieking. Blood pours out of her eye socket and down her face, dripping onto the ground. Everything's fuzzy, and she grips the place where her eye should be. It's not. All that's there is blood. Pilate's standing over her now, and with her good eye, she can see that he's somehow ripped a giant metal shard off of the decaying street railing.

Then, she vomits and collapses onto the ground, finding that it's suddenly very hard to breathe.

Freyja stands motionlessly behind him, looking like she's going to vomit too.

However, if he thinks this is the end of her, he's dead wrong.

Pilate swings the large metal railing piece at her again, and she rolls out of the way, but not in time. It hits the top of her head, knocking her over. Everything is even fuzzier now, her surroundings beginning to blur together into one big puddle of grey and black.

Her opponent laughs and prepares to swing the rod at her again. Rolling onto her knees, she stands to face the railing. Before it can collide with her body, she extends her arms out and stops it in her hands. Pilate grunts, and with her strong grip, she attempts to yank it away from him. He continues to clutch onto it, and for a moment they play tug of war, each trying to get the metal banister for themselves.

"Just give up already and die," Pilate hisses as he pulls on his side of the railing. "This fight is getting too easy."

"Fat chance, asshole. I'm not dying until I see your face in that sky."

Suddenly, Valentine sees Hana and Clay approaching out of the corner of her eye. Pilate seems to see this too, for his eyes widen and he gulps.

"You know what? If you want it, take it!" Pilate howls then thrusts the metal banister right at her.

The metal rod hits her square in the stomach and pushes her onto the ground. She grunts then tries to stand. However, the metal rod is over the lower half of her body, and when she tries to push it off, she finds that it's too heavy for her in her weak state.

Pilate's standing over her now, grinning.

"Sweet dreams, Valentine."

She's powerless to stop his shoe as it flies toward her face, sending her whole world into darkness.

* * *

 _Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Male._

* * *

"Valentine!" he shrieks as the large District Two boy kicks her right in the jaw, causing her head to jolt backward and smash against the hard concrete below her.

He winces. There's no way she could have survived that.

Bending down, Pilate yanks the metal cat claws off her wrist and turns, leaping over the broken railing and sprinting away with Freyja, opposite the crumbling city that many of the other tributes headed toward. They're fast, and despite the fact that both Hana and him are running toward him too, they still seem to be distancing himself.

Not that Clay's really running. Well, he is, but not just as fast as he can.

He may not want to admit it, but he's a little scared of fighting Pilate. Actually, he's a little scared of fighting _anyone_. Lately, his narcolepsy has been extremely unpredictable, and the drastic highs and lows of the pregames have been triggering it more than usual. He's already had two public episodes in a short span of four days, and he's not willing to risk having another. Not in a place where he could never wake up from it.

That's why he was preying on the weaker tributes during the bloodbath. The only tribute he'd engaged with so far had been Solomon, one of the weakest tributes in the games. If he had to face Pilate, even with Hana next to him, who knows what could happen.

He dismantled Valentine quickly, a girl who had been relentlessly training alongside him for years. And he was _unarmed_. Now that he had her weapon, who knew what damage he could do?

Upon reaching Valentine's limp body, he stops dead in his tracks. Hana, who was a bit ahead of him, hears his feet skid to an abrupt halt and turns backward, giving him a confused look.

"What are you doing?" she questions angrily. "We need to go after them. They killed our two allies, our friends. We need to show him a taste of his own medicine."

"It's too dangerous to go on," he declares. "I mean, look what he did to her."

They both look at their ally, who is laying in a pool of her own blood, her face barely visible beneath the red liquid. The majority of it streams out of one of her eye sockets, but it's also coming from the giant gashes on her head too. Her lips are parted as if she's going to say something, and her one good eye is still wide open, frozen in an expression of utter horror.

Hana nods her head solemnly, then tilts it upward and watches as Pilate and Freyja's figures get smaller and smaller. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a minute. "You're right. There's nothing out there anyway, just a bunch of dead things. No game or edible plants could survive here. Plus, they don't have water, and at the speed they're running at, they'll be thirsty within minutes. They'll either die of dehydration, or they'll come back for more supplies and we'll be ready for them. Plus, I'm sure they'll kill some tributes while they're at it. Saves us work. It's the rational thing to do to let them be."

Clay sighs in relief, happy his now only ally agreed with him. "I was thinking the same exact thing."

Well, not exactly.

Turning back to the cornucopia, he sees that it's now deserted, save for a few limp bodies scattered about. The District Three boy. The District Eight tribute. Archie. Valentine. They all lay in pools of their own blood, and Hana seems to frown at the sight.

"I wish everyone had stuck to the plan," she murmurs softly, no doubt referencing Valentine. "Why couldn't everyone have just listened to us?"

Clay shrugs. "People had their own agendas on their mind, I guess."

Burying her head in her hands, Hana shakes it back and forth. "This is all my fault. I should have had a better plan, I should have known Pilate was more dangerous than I thought. I mean, I studied for this for ages! I should have known. I really should have."

Clay is about to console her when he hears the cannons begin.

Boom, one.

Boom, two.

Boom, three.

Boom, four.

Then there's silence.

He waits for a moment, wondering if they just forgot to sound it. But a minute later there's still no cannon.

Hana and his exchange a wary glance.

"Are you sure you killed Beckett?" he asks.

She nods.

"And Coral?"

"Yeah, that one was almost too easy. The girl was thrown right at me."

"Sky?"

"He looked pretty dead to me. Freyja must have stabbed him twenty times, if not more."

"Archie?"

She pointed to his limp body on the ground. "You think he's still alive after that?"

Clay shook his head. "No way."

Then, as if synchronized, both turn their heads toward Valentine at the exact same time.

"She's alive," Hana breathes. "She's alive."

Then, something hard stabs him in the back.

* * *

 _Winnifred Ellison, 16._

 _District Six Female._

* * *

She's never thought twice about anything in her life, so when she has the choice between a clear-path to safety and a chance to take down one of the biggest threats in the game, she goes with her gut. And when her gut tells her to throw her ax into the broad back of the boy from One, it's not a surprise. Very characteristic of her, actually.

It's also very characteristic for it to barely even pierce the skin because normally, everything she does never goes the way she originally intended it to.

When she hurls the ax right at him, Takei screams her name.

"Freddie!"

She decides to ignore him, and sprints toward the boy from one, her fists clenched and ready to punch. She knows he has a weapon, yes, but she's confident that her hand-to-hand combat skills are as good as anyone's. She was the arm-wrestling champion among her friend group back in Six, after all. He may have a sword, but she has spunk. In her eyes, it's a pretty even fight.

Takei begins to yell words he probably thinks are profanities, such as stupid and dumb, but she continues to ignore him, laughing slightly to herself. Little, sheltered cult-boy has no idea what real swears are. The knife wound that the Three boy created in her back kills still, but she laughs through the pain, running despite the shooting stabs that are pulsating through her body.

She really doesn't learn from her mistakes.

Meanwhile, the boy from One is tearing the knife out of his back, and the girl from Two, whose name she is pretty sure starts with an H, is running toward her, sword in hand. It's only then she realizes she's weaponless save for her fists, and this fight might not be as fair as she thought originally.

But it's too late to turn back now.

Her and the girl from Two charge each other, and as they near, Winnifred dives toward her, aiming for her legs. Yet, the career is much quicker than she anticipated, and she easily leaps out of the way without a scratch. On the other hand, Winnifred thumps against the ground with a loud thud, scratching her skin against the hard concrete.

Looking up, she sees the career raise her shiny sword upward, and she manages to roll right out of the way just in time for the blade to miss piercing her skin.

H. doesn't look frustrated, and swipes at Winnifred again, this time nicking her arm. Wincing in pain, Winnifred rolls onto her side and clutches the spot where Hana's sword cut her, red blood seeping onto her hand.

Kicking her onto her back, the tall career girl places the sole of her shoe on her stomach and smiles down at Winnifred.

"You put up a respectable fight, but 9/10, careers win," she chuckles gleefully. "Sorry that the odds weren't in your favor—"

Winnifred spits up at her, then grabs her foot and tries to pry it off of her. It doesn't work.

"Well, in that case," H. murmurs, raising her sword into the air, "I guess you don't want to talk anymore."

She's about to smash it into her heart when out of nowhere, Takei pushes her off of him. However, he's the one who ends up falling to the ground, right onto her already scratched up body. H. doesn't even fall, steadying herself quickly.

Biting her lip, she holds back a scream.

"Cute," the One boy murmurs, having made a resurgence. "Everyone's been making our work too easy for us. You agree, Hana?"

She nods, that same, gleeful grin still plastered on her face.

Then, out of an even further nowhere, both of the careers let out surprised screams.

Jolting her head upward, Winnifred doesn't know what's making her more shocked: the sparking, blue taser-looking thing that Manida is holding in their hand, or the fact Manida is actually here and isn't being a scared little coward that she normally is.

In all honesty, Winnifred kind of forgot she existed for a moment there.

"What in the world—" Takei begins, but Manida (Mashina?) cuts her off.

"Save it! We have to go!" she yelps, tapping the taser-thing onto the career's legs two more times, causing their bodies to jolt upward.

Grabbing Takei's hand, she helps him up and the three of them make a desperate run for it.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Yes, I just realized I decimated the biggest alliance in the game. And do I care? No._

 _Also, do I care that only two people killed? You wish!_

 _I hope you enjoyed the longest chapter I've ever written and probably 9+ hours that could have been used to help me get into college._

 _Hahaha priorities what are those ?_

 _What time is it? Your favorite time, eulogy time!_

 _24th: Beckett Lock, D8F/M, killed by Hana Marko._

 _Beckett was real cute, and my first ever trans/non-binary character. It was definitely a challenge writing them, but I think I grew while writing them and hopefully I got all of their pronouns right at last! After coming to out Panem, I didn't really have any other place for them, and I thought their arc was pretty complete. They conquered their fears at last, but sadly, I don't really personally believe that the Hunger Games are places for happy endings. But thank you D9 tribute, who gave me an awesome character! Thanks for helping me grow!_

 _23rd: Skylar "Sky" Baxter, D3M, killed by Freyja Abbott._

 _Skylar, you were great. I loved his relationship with Freyja, and it had a certain duality to it I can't really describe. They were best friends and enemies all at the same time, and I couldn't really see both you making it out of the bloodbath. Also, the irony of her killing him was too good I just had to. There is so much irony in this chapter, lol. Hi Braxton. But Sky, you were certainly unique, and a refreshing take on the peacekeeper's son! I couldn't have asked for anyone better, and thanks for sending him to me Blade is my Penname! Sorry if I didn't hit everything on his form, but I feel like he kind of took on a life of his own and I just went with it. I hope you're happy with how it turned out though, and hopefully Freyja can live long enough to fulfill their promise!_

 _22nd: Coraline "Coral" Seaton, D4F, killed by Hana Marko._

 _Coral was a little spunky girl, and I love my little spunky girls. You were a social little butterfly who was very normal otherwise, but that's alright! You called Archie out for being a jerk and it was great. But in the end of the day, you fell sucker to Braxton and his ever-changing mind, and I knew you were a family girl, so I couldn't not put that in. You were a little gullible though, and fell for his gimmicks. (Now that I think about it, you're last tribute, Seriena, fell for Lux's gimmicks too!) I hope you're happy with how she turned out, POMforever, and hopefully I'll see you for a third time!_

 _21st: Archer "Archie" Caspian, D4M, killed by Freyja Abbott._

 _Archer was someone whose character I really liked but I feel like I never wrote him well. He was definitely a vibrant character, and I feel like I could have written his wildness and funniness so much better, but in the grand scheme of the career pack, he kind of fell into the foreground behind big personalities like Pilate and Valentine. And someone had to die there, because a Pilate vs. the Career Pack wasn't going to end with no casualties. Sorry Archie and Girl with the Knives, I feel like I didn't do him justice. Hopefully he's in a better place now though, and in any other pack, he probably would have made it a bit longer._

 _Alliances:_

 _Careers: Clay, Valentine, Hana_

 _Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja_

 _Siblings: Solomon, Luna_

 _Freddie's Babysitters: Winnifred, Takei, Manisha_

 _MIA: Terra, Lennox, Eliora_

 _Kind of an alliance?: Bruno, Mortimer, North_

 _Loners: Tyrell, Gareth, Braxton, Marguerite_

 _See you next time for a hopefully shorter chapter!_

 _paper :)_


	29. Day I: Waiting Games

_Day 1: Waiting Games_

* * *

 _Lennox Orseni, 15._

 _District Nine Male._

* * *

This place is crazy, like something out of a comic book.

Their small alliance walks on the edge of the crumbling road, toward the dark, looming city in the distance. Rotting, old cars are scattered about the street, their windshields broken and sides rusting. It looks like something his school teachers said the world outside Panem is: desolate, dead, and inhabitable. He kicks at the dust beneath his feet, and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend its sand on a beach, and that he's not actually in a death trap but rather a sparkling, warm, lavish paradise.

The cold wind that rips at his ankles doesn't let him think that for long though, so he decides that if this is indeed a death trap, it's a pretty cool one.

At least it's a new experience. Maybe it's even a step up from the doldrums of Nine. Nine was pretty bad. Maybe he's lucky, being brought here. Maybe it's going to be a good thing.

Terra's words cut through his thoughts.

"I hope a lot of people died," she murmurs, adjusting the pack on her back. They all got one of them at the bloodbath than ran, a strategy that had worked for them pretty well so far. None of them were injured or dead yet, and they hopefully had enough supplies to last them a while.

Lennox furrows his brow, not quite understanding why she'd wish for people to die. "Why?"

"Because it'll bring us one step closer to winning. I for one want to get back to my family."

He nods his head in understanding. "Yeah, me too. I want to get back home to my Mom and Dad and siblings. They must be so worried right now. Hey, I wonder if they're watching me right now! Hey Mom, hey Dad! Hey Yarra, Wendy, Jade, Nico, and Theora! I'm doing great! I made it out of the bloodbath with no injuries, not even a little scrape. You proud of me?"

"I bet my girlfriend is proud of me," Eliora cuts in.

Terra narrows her eyes at his district partner. " _You_ have a girlfriend?"

Eliora rolls her eyes at Terra. "Yeah. Her name is Tizrah. It means delight in some other language, which is very true since she's my delight in life."

"Well, you've never talked about her before now," Terra snaps back. "I bet she's not even real."

Lennox sighs, continuing to walk and hope it'll blow over. He knows his allies don't exactly like each other – he doesn't know why, but every time they seem to talk, it always ends with a fight. It's like their personalities clash. However, he has hope they'll become friends soon enough. It's probably just going to take them a little time is all, and that's okay. Not everyone is as open-minded as him.

"The only reason I haven't talked about her is that I don't want to win just because people take pity on me. I'm not like that love-sick puppy from District Two who is playing up her girlfriend just for the sponsors. I'm going to win on my own merit. And yes, she's very real, and I bet she's watching me right now to make sure I'm okay. If I died, I don't know what she'd do without me. I'm the love of her life. I bet you don't have anyone watching you, grumpy-face. You couldn't get a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever you like if you tried."

Terra's eyes widen, but before she can say anything, Lennox cuts in.

"Hey guys, how about we talk about something else?"

Terra folds her arms over her chest, giving Eliora a nasty glare before looking away. "Okay, _fine_."

" _Fine_ ," Eliora huffs. "Lennox, how about you come here?"

"Why?" he asks. "I like walking next to Terra. She smells nice. Like pine trees."

Eliora blinks, then smiles weakly and bats her eyes at him. "But I feel a little bit scared walking on the edge. I feel like something is going to come up and snatch me from under the street. I need a strong man like you to make me feel safer."

Lennox's face flushes red, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Terra roll her eyes.

"Manipulative bitch," the District Seven girl whispers under her breath, but Lennox chooses to ignore the comment, though he is beginning to get a bit frustrated with how his allies have been acting toward each other. He's the youngest one out of the three of them, but sometimes it feels like he's the oldest because the other two always seem to act like children, bickering constantly, never saying one nice word to the other, always—

He stops himself, noticing his hands are clenching into fists. Breathing in, he releases the tension within him, sending a wave of calm through his body.

He can't be negative. Not here. He needs to be the positive one. He _needs_ to be, especially in a place as dark as this one. He can't let himself drift. He can't. He just can't.

Turning back to Eliora, he nods his head and smiles at her. "Alright, if you really want me to..."

She nods quickly, and he skips over to her, grinning widely. She instantly wraps her arm around him and smiles.

"There, that's better. So, what'd you want to talk about?" she chirps cheerfully, a stark contrast for her mood of about three seconds ago.

He shrugs. "Anything you want."

"Let's talk about the plan," Terra suggests.

Lennox nods. "Alright. I think we should head toward the city and make camp there. That way, they'll be more cover for us to hide out. Out here, there's nothing really. If someone finds us they'll be no place for us to hide."

"I agree," Eliora chimes.

However, Terra doesn't look that happy. "The city is far away though. It'll probably take a few hours to get there at this pace. I think we should go back to the cornucopia and try to take it for ourselves, that way—"

Eliora cuts her off. "No."

Terra narrows her eyes at the skinny redheaded girl. "Why not?"

"It's too dangerous," Eliora responds. "What if you two died and left me alone? I'd die out here too!"

"That sounds a bit selfish to me," Terra retorts, her tone bitter. "Do what's good for the alliance. If we take the cornucopia, we'll have control of the game. If we hide in the city, we're just sitting ducks, waiting for someone bigger to prey on us."

Lennox nods again. "I think you have a good point. We should take an active role. Make our own path."

Eliora's eyes widen, and she turns to Lennox, a panicked expression on her face. "No, Lennox, listen to me. She's trying to manipulate you into getting what she wants. You can't leave me. I need someone I can trust out here, and you're the only person I can trust."

"What about Terra?" he asks.

She ignores him. "We need someone from Nine to win, right?"

He nods.

"Then we need to stay safe, at least for now."

"Okay," he replies. "I'm with you."

He can hear Terra groan. "You know, I'm not deaf, right? I can hear everything you just said."

"I know," Eliora replies, a smug grin on her face.

Terra rolls her eyes. "Ugh, why did I join this alliance in the first place? I knew I'd always be the third-wheel."

Lennox opens his mouth to tell her she's just as important to him as Eliora is, but his district partner cuts him off.

"If you think that, then maybe you should leave," Eliora counters.

"Maybe I should," she retorts. "I don't think I can spend another moment with you without ripping you to shreds. You're lucky I don't like killing, because if I did, you'd already be dead."

"Hey, guys!" Lennox exclaims, butting in between the two of them. "We're all allies here, we can get along, right?"

"We're not allies anymore," Terra hisses, glaring at Eliora. "I'm done here."

"Wait!" Lennox exclaims, grabbing her by the arm as she turns to walk in the opposite direction. "We can get along, I promise! Um – um – I know how to mediate arguments! I can mediate yours! You two can be friends, it might just take a little time! Y—"

Terra cuts her off. "Look, Lennox, you're a nice kid, but as long as you're still with her, I can't be your ally. I really like you, I really do, so if you ever have a change of heart, you'll know where to find me. I'll be at the cornucopia."

She turns abruptly, then begins to walk in the direction from which they came.

"Wait!" he yells after her, but Eliora grabs his arm, pulling him back.

"She's not worth your time, Lennox," his district partner murmurs. "She made her choice. She's gone, and she's not coming back. She didn't think you were good enough for her. But I don't think that. I'll always have your back, no matter what, alright? I promise. Do you promise you'll never leave me too?"

"I promise," he mutters, yet it doesn't dawn on him that Eliora's asking a lot more than he's willing it give.

* * *

 _Gareth Emory, 18._

 _District Eight Male._

* * *

He hasn't stopped running since that gong went off.

He just remembers fragments of the day – bits and pieces of what the games have been so far. He remembers biting back a scream as he was lifted up into the arena; he remembers opening his eyes to nothing but blackness and his lips loosening, the scream he tried so desperately to hold back coming free. He remembers opening his eyes and it being light, and then he remembers running, running away from the people, from the supplies, from the killing—from death.

He's not ready to die just yet, and he never will be. If he could just keep running, further and further away, maybe he'll be able to outrun it.

He checks for about the 300th time to see if someone—anyone—followed him. No figures loom behind him, and he sighs in relief. He's safe, for now.

But he can't let his guard down just yet. He can't let his guard down ever. He'll never know what people, what things, are lying in the shadows just out of sight.

After about an hour, or to him, what seems like a lifetime, he finally stops, gasping for air.

Around him is nothing. And he's not exaggerating. There's literally nothing around him but sand, black as night and as fine as silk. He bends down, grabbing a handful and letting it slip through his fingers. Some pours back onto the ground while other particles are carried off with the wind, disappearing into the dark, grey sky. He looks upward. Through the clouds, he can see a faint stream of sunlight permeating through, but it's not the normal sun he sees every day. It's anything but normal.

The light streaming through the clouds isn't yellow or white. It's green.

Gulping, he focuses back on the landscape around him and looks behind him one more time to see again, if anyone dared to follow him. No one did. He guesses they all probably ran toward the city, the ruins, or what looked like a swamp, but he ran in the opposite direction of everything. He didn't think anyone would dare follow him. Without supplies, no one can survive out here for more than a few days.

However, a few days is all he needs. After a few days, the numbers of tributes in the arena should drop drastically, and only then will he leave the barren desert he's run into. With fewer tributes in the arena, they'll be less of a chance he'll run into anyone, so he can find water and food (hopefully) in peace. His worst fear is to run into another tribute, particularly a career. And no careers are coming out here.

Looking back in the direction he came from, he can't see anything but a few scattered ruins about a mile or so back, far in the distance. Turning around, he can see the electric forcefield glimmering only a few hundred or so yards away. He's not daring to go anywhere near that thing. He's read enough books to know what electricity does to one's heart.

So, he takes a seat in the sand, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a shiny black stone, fitting for the black landscape that surrounds him. He's had the stone with him for his entire life, even before his adoptive father found him on the streets. It was with him when he was a baby, and he feels that he has a special connection with it—it's like an extension of him, similar to another limb. He moves it slowly in between his hands, rubbing the tips of his fingers over the bumpy symbol in the middle. He's never known what the symbol actually meant - he's tried to find it, but even after searching through more than a thousand pages of books about symbols, languages, and spiritual meanings, he's found nothing, not even a lead on what it could be. However, he likes to think it's his good luck charm, something that kept him alive despite all the odds.

Hopefully, it will work that way here too. Slipping it back into his pocket, he looks out at the horizon ahead of him and waits for the cannons to begin sounding.

* * *

 _North Brier, 14._

 _District Twelve Female._

* * *

Bruno will not _stop_ bothering her.

"You know, North, your hair looks really nice today," he tells her as they walk through a deserted town full of crumbling houses and torn up streets.

"Thanks?" she replies, narrowing her eyes at him in a state of confusion. If she didn't know better, she'd think that he was trying to kill her with flattery.

"Yeah, your eyes are just so pretty too. Brown's my favorite color, did you know that? It's just so – so – what's the word? Earthy. Yes, earthy."

"Earthy?" North echoes, her tone slightly bitter and annoyed. In the beginning, his slightly off-compliments were a bit funny, but now they're just getting old, like a joke gone bad. "That's an interesting word. I wouldn't necessarily use that to describe my eyes, but thanks, I guess?"

He nods his head. "No problem. You're just such an easy person to give compliments too, you know?"

 _What does that even mean?_

"Sure?" she mumbles.

Meanwhile, behind them, Mortimer cannot stop giggling.

She whips around. "What's so funny? Do I have kick me sign my back or something? Do I have a whole in the back of my pants?"

"No, you just have a really nice-looking butt!" Bruno exclaims, chuckling.

North's face flushes red, and her jaw drops. She whips around to face Bruno, her eyes narrowed into a sharp glare.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said. Your butt looks really nice."

Gawking, she turns and falls back so she's now standing right next to Mortimer, who apparently, thinks this is the funniest thing in the world.

"Can I kill him?" she whispers.

He instantly stops laughing. "Are you being serious?"

"Dead serious."

He shakes his head back and forth vehemently. "No, absolutely not."

"But he's annoying! And he won't leave me alone even when I tell him to stop!"

Mortimer puts his hands on his hips, turning toward her. "Sounds like someone I know."

She sticks her tongue out at him.

"No," he growls at her. "You are not killing Bruno."

"But he's injured! How much longer do you think he's going to last like that without any medical help? He has a hole in his back the size of my fist! He may be fine now, but once it gets infected, he's just going to slow us all down."

"Do you know what the word no even means?"

"No."

It takes a minute for Bruno to realize they've stopped, but when he does, he turns around and smiles at the two of them.

"What are you guys talking about?" he chortles, completely oblivious.

"Nothing!" they both yelp in unison, exchanging a wary glance.

He nods his head, smiles at them, and turns around and keeps walking. Meanwhile, North has slid her bag off of her shoulders and is digging through it in search of her knife.

"I said no, North."

She rolls her eyes, finally locating the knife and holding it firmly in her hand.

"Okay, whatever, Dad. You're being such a downer. It doesn't matter anyway, because I don't need your permission."

"Well if you get hurt, I'm not helping you."'

"Fine," she retorts. "I don't need your help anyway."

Stepping forward, she bounds toward Bruno, knife in hand.

"Hey Bruno!" she exclaims once she's caught up with him. "Can I see your sword for a second? It's really cool and shiny. I just want to take a closer look."

He nods his head. "Of course, North! Here it is!"

Handing it over to her, North grabs it and instantly chucks it back behind her head. Bruno's eyes widen, but before he realizes what's about to happen, her knife is lodged in his chest, just above his ribcage. He lets out a curdling scream and falls onto his knees, screaming into terror.

Yanking it out of his chest, she realizes she hit the wrong side. The heart is on the left side, not the right, but how was she supposed to know that? She's never been to school a day in her life. As she pulls the knife out of his chest, red blood spurts out, splattering onto her clothes.

She's about to stab it into his actual heart when he jolts his arms outward, grabbing her calves and pulling them out from underneath her. She yelps as her body flies toward the ground, her head smacking against the hard earth. In the process, she drops her knife, and it flies across the air, landing right at the feet of Mortimer, who is standing still as a statue, his eyes wide.

 _Whatever. She doesn't need a knife. She's scrappy enough to do this herself._

Growling, she instantly springs up and hurls herself at Bruno, who is still on his knees, clutching the spot where her knife impaled him. They both fly toward the ground, North landing on top of the young boy. However, before she has a chance to pin his arms to the ground he punches her square in the nose, sending her head and body flying backward.

She narrowly catches herself before her head smashes against the ground. Gasping for air, she waits a moment before sitting up again; however, that moment is too long. Bruno's already charging toward her, and just as she sits up, she sees his foot fly toward her face.

Shrieking, she rolls out of the way just in time. However, Bruno is faster than she thought, and before she's able to stand back up he places his foot on her neck, crushing her throat. She coughs violently and tries to kick at him, but her kicks don't seem to do anything. With her hands, she grabs his foot and tries to yank it off, but he's stronger than she thought too, and his leg doesn't budge.

Looking up at his face, she just sees confusion.

"Why?" he gawks, his eyes wide. "I-I—I thought you liked me. Why did you try to kill me?"

She's still gasping for air, and then tries to respond, nothing comes out but desperate wheezes.

The sides of her vision are beginning to go black, and she can feel the muscles in her body begin to relax. It's telling her to give up, to go into submission. Yet, she won't let herself.

Roaring, she makes one last push to yank his leg off of her lungs. This time, it works, and she gets the foot off of her throat and onto the ground instead. Gasping for air, she turns to face Bruno, but she realizes that he's laying face first on the ground, a blood flowing out of his back.

A cannon sounds, and she looks up.

Above her is Mortimer, clutching a bloody knife feverishly, his eyes wide.

"Are you okay?" he asks her, a look of concern plastered onto his face.

Despite the fact that she was _this_ close away from dying, she grins up at him.

"You saved me! Does this mean we're official allies now?" she asks eagerly, her face lighting up with hope.

The look of concern on his face instantly vanishes, and he rolls his eyes. "Really? That's the first thing you say to me after you almost just died?"

She nods, sitting up and stretching her arms into the air as if she's just woken up from a nap. "Yep."

He sighs, then turns around and grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. "Whatever you want to think to make yourself feel better, North."

She instantly springs up, and runs toward him, wrapping him in a giant hug. "Yay! Oh, Morty, you're the best! Official allies! It's a dream come true! What to do think your alliance name should be? The Criminals? Morty and Northy? The Dynamic Duo? Oh no, I got it! How about Batman and Robin? One time my friend Eben found this old comic book and neither of us could read it, but we asked someone what the title meant and they said it was about superheroes from a long time ago before Panem. Do you know what a superhero is?"

He shakes his head.

"It's someone who saves other people who are in trouble, like how you just saved me. And don't worry, now that we're allies, I'll be saving you too."

"You are the weirdest girl I've ever met in my entire life, North," Mortimer grumbles as he shakes his head, but she can see him grinning, and she knows Batman and Robin is the one for them.

* * *

 _Tyrell Taiko, 15._

 _District Six Male._

* * *

The green sun is beginning to sink below the horizon line, dipping down below the blackness of the earth and casting a dark shadow over him as he slips between the rusting cars that line the road. It's a good thing, and although small goosebumps are forming along his exposed skin, it gives him more cover as he moves. Ahead of him, he can still barely make out the two figures he's been following, yet it's beginning to get harder to see, especially with his dark shades on. He's a bit tempted to take them off but decides against it, not wanting to give away one of his only advantages to the Capitol just yet: his perceptiveness.

He's not surprised Luna and Solomon decided to head away from where most of the tributes went. During the bloodbath, he had watched from afar as most of the tributes chose to head toward the ruined city to the north. Two out of three of the larger alliances that were still left, not including the careers, had disappeared in that direction. The first alliance had been Terra, Eliora, and Lennox's, and the second had been Winnifred, Manisha and Takei's (yes, he had taken the time to learn everyone's name during training; with all the disadvantages he has, he needs all the help he can get, and one never knows when knowing a name comes in handy). The only alliance of three that didn't head toward the city was Mortimer's, but with his and Bruno's state after the bloodbath, he understands why they didn't go that route. They probably wouldn't have made it there.

On the other hand, Luna and Solomon went in the complete opposite direction, away from all the stronger tributes. He knows why. From just watching them for a few moments in training, and having that brief conversation with them, it's clear that the two of them want to isolate themselves and avoid conflict at all cost. Through his body language, closed and abrasive, Solomon made it clear that he didn't want anyone else in their alliance. The note he slipped to him after their shared meal during training confirmed his suspicions. Luna though, on the other hand, seemed more open to an alliance. She was the one who approached him and made sure he wasn't eating lunch alone. If Solomon wasn't an obstacle, Tyrell thinks that they might have potentially been allies, and that brings him back to his reasons for following the twins.

With no supplies, especially in an arena like this one with no signs of life in sight, there's no way he can survive on his own. He needs food and water if he wants to last more than a few days. And while he hates to do it, he has to get those supplies from somewhere. With the careers still at the cornucopia, there's no other way to get those supplies other than stealing. He knows there's other alliances out there that certainly have more than the twins, but he's not the stealthiest guy, and if he gets caught stealing, he's banking on the fact that the Nguyens probably won't kill him. At least, not with Luna around. She won't let Solomon hurt him.

The sun continues to lower, and soon, he sees Luna and Solomon's silhouettes veer off the road. He follows behind them, making sure to keep his distance. He watches as they slip into a ruined house whose roof has the appearance of having collapsed long ago. Its walls are blackened with ash as if the building was burned by a fire. He creeps toward it, slowly and steadily, making sure to make as little noise as possible.

When he feels comfortable enough, he raises himself onto the tips of his toes and peers through a hole in the wall of the house. His targets have made a small fire with some luck inside the house, and it flickers soundlessly as he feels a chill roll down his spine. He wishes he could make one – it's cold out, but he decides against it. At night, he has one less sense than normal – down to three – and he doesn't want to make anything that could attract other tributes toward him. He's already at a disadvantage as it is.

Looking inside, he spots Solomon beginning to rummage through their bags they found at the cornucopia. The first contains a canteen of water, a piece of rope, flint, and two bags of dried fruit. The second has a blanket, another flask of water, a gas mask (for what?), and three loaves of bread.

Now, all he has to do is wait.

* * *

 _A/N: A bit of a slower day, but after the bloodbath, I think I needed a little bit of this. But we have an alliance breakup and a death still! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and the next shouldn't be too far away. We haven't heard from Marguerite or seen her at all yet, so we'll definitely catch yp her. I'm thinking catching up with a few other alliances too, maybe the careers? Who would you all like to see?_

 _Anyway, onto the eulogy,_

 _20th: Bruno Muller, District Nine Male, stabbed by Mortimer._

 _Boy, this one was a long time coming. If there's any character in both of the stories I've written that I got completely wrong, it was Bruno. I had this idea for him when he was accepted, so I tried to mold him to fit that and it just kind of fell through, and I really didn't think I wrote him well in comparison to his form. It was just a spiraling thing, I'd try to fix it and it would get worse and further and further away from the form. I really really wanted to do him justice, but I think I kind of failed. I hope his childish nature was memorable though, and his whole gullibleness, and that he fell for a trick from probably one of the most other gullible guys this year, Mortimer. It was fun writing him though, and I had fun with the whole Bruno/North/Mortimer plotline, but I just felt like he was too far gone from his original design to keep writing. I'm sorry BabyRue11, if you send me another character in the future I hope your experience with me will be better. Thanks for him though, and I hope you're somewhat happy with his story._

 _Alliances:_

 _Whatever's left of them: Clay, Valentine, Hana_

 _Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja_

 _Being Stalked: Solomon, Luna_

 _The Babysitters + The Baby: Winnifred, Manisha, Takei_

 _Only D9 Now :( : Lennox, Eliora_

 _Batman and Robin: Mortimer, North_

 _Loners: Tyrell, Terra, Gareth, Braxton, Marguerite_

 _Until next time,_

 _paper :)_


	30. Night I: Cold-Blooded Killers

_Night 1: Cold-Blooded Killers_

* * *

 _Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Ten Female._

* * *

Sitting up on a leafless, dead tree, she watches as the faces of the five dead tributes grace the sky.

She hums along as the anthem plays in the background, resting her head back on the trunk of the tree. A cold wind whips at her hair, but it barely affects her. She's slept outside before, and in District Ten, the winters aren't exactly toasty. While other tributes might be shivering in their skins, huddling together for warmth, she's spread out, soaking in the frigid night breeze.

The girls at the community home used to call her coldblooded. She doesn't doubt it.

First up is Sky, the tall, intelligent-looking boy from Three. She never could really get a good read on him like she could most of the others, and always looked like he was harboring a secret, or was just really reserved. She remembered that during his reaping, he hadn't looked shocked the least bit when his name was drawn and walked up to the stage nonchalantly as if he were expecting it. She knows the Capitol occasionally rigs names, which is why she's here, so maybe he is a rebel like her? Or rather, was.

The second face to grace the sky is the always smiling, too talkative girl from Four. Just from watching her for a few minutes during training, Marguerite got the impression that the girl was annoying, someone who would drive Marguerite to madness. She's quiet, observing, intelligent. Coral was loud, obnoxious, unalert. They're polar opposites, and Marguerite isn't sad to see her face up there. She won't be saddened to see anyone's face up there. Each cannon means she's surviving and one step closer to winning.

The third is the redheaded boy who always looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but the Capitol. She wonders why he volunteered if he really didn't want to be there. While his face only flashes for a second in the sky, she can tell just from the picture that when he took it, he was nervous and uncertain. His eyes don't look right down at her like Coral's did. They stray to the left slightly, as if he's telling a lie. She's not surprised he's dead either. Most of the games in the past few years have had one surprise career death, and it's usually the weakest member of the pack, or the most overconfident. He was the prior.

Next is Bruno, the young, exuberant boy who had suggested a younger tributes alliance composed of her, North, and him. It wasn't a bad idea exactly – she was all for getting young tributes to win and prove to the Capitol that they were more than just silly, naïve children, that is, if that person at the end was her. She's not in the games to make friends. She's here to survive, and if being in an alliance means sharing and having to trust two people she barely knows, she's out.

Finally, she recognizes the tribute from Eight, the one who had come out as genderfluid during her interviews. Marguerite didn't really have much of an opinion on her; she was silent as a mouse and didn't give much away during training like more _obvious_ tributes did. Yet, it was one less person to contend with, so she doesn't feel sorry.

After the fifth face, the sky goes black. The young girl is slightly surprised; usually, more outer district tributes perish in the bloodbath. This year it was the opposite. She's astounded that the sheepish girl from Eleven isn't up there, nor the flighty boy from Eight, and not the tributes from Nine who are thin as sticks. Yet, many Capitolites probably placed bets today that she'd be one of those faces, so she knows there's more to a tribute than just appearances. She can't underestimate her fellow competitors.

There's more too her than meets the eye, and she wants to show them all that she's a force to be reckoned with. In time, they'll all see that she's not some dumb, naïve kid anymore. Once she's through with it all, they'll just see her as a rock-hard survivor.

People call her coldblooded for a reason, after all.

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

None of this is going according to plan.

She thought her first night out in the arena she'd be sneaking through the arena like a lioness on the hunt, chasing down tributes and killing them with one smooth stroke of her sword. She thought she'd be the Capitol's hero, the one they adored, the one who received the most kills ever in the first day alone. She thought her alliance would still be intact, not in shambles. She thought that she'd actually have a grip on what was going on.

She was so wrong.

Now, she's standing inside the cornucopia, tending to Valentine's wounds. Clay is sorting through supplies, trying to find more medicine. They've already almost run out, and day one isn't even over yet. Their ally is still knocked out cold, probably in some kind of coma for all Hana and Clay know. And that electric taser is still running through Hana's mind, sparking through her brain, illuminating her vision.

 _Spark._

 _Spark._

 _Spark._

 _How did that little girl get her hands on something like that?_

She stands bewildered over Valentine's body, running scenarios over and over through her head. She's run through things like these thousands of times back home, but in the games, she seems to be stuck. It's like she's blanking, her brain cleared of all its prior knowledge. All her practice hasn't prepared her for what's already happened, not to mention on day one. One. She thought she'd last longer than that, longer than one day without something going horribly, horribly wrong.

After all, she's planned practically her whole life for this. She thought she ran through every possible scenario, but apparently, she left out a few.

And then there's Pilate and Freyja she has to worry about too. In her and Clay's current state, confused and a bit dazed, the two of them could come back at take the cornucopia with probably little effort. She's banking on the fact that Pilate is a lot less confident than he seems, and that he's more afraid of her than he lets on.

She can't believe this is already what it's come to. A hoping game.

This was supposed to happen around day five, not day one.

She wraps another bandage around Valentine's arm, then looks back up at her only conscious ally left.

"Clay?" she asks.

"Yeah?" he echoes back, turning to face her.

"Did you think the games were going to be different than they are?"

He smiles at her. "What, having second thoughts about your lifelong dream, number one superfan? Decided the games aren't all they're cracked up to be?"

She shakes her head vehemently, though inside, she doesn't feel as confident about her answer. "No, absolutely not. I was just wondering what you thought about what happened today, if it was different from what you thought would happen."

"Well, uh–" Clay murmurs, looking up at the ceiling for a second before turning back to her. "I mean, yeah. I didn't expect us to be down to two so soon. I—"

"We're not down to two of us just yet!" Hana protests, cutting Clay off right in the middle of his sentence. "We haven't heard her cannon go off yet. She's still alive, you and I both know it."

"Yeah, but when she comes back – _if_ she comes back, do you really think she'll be able to fight?"

Hana nods. "I have no doubt about it. She's a fighter; I know she is. And when she finds out Pilate's still alive there's no way she's going to let him die before she does."

"True," Clay replies, picking up a sword and beginning to twirl it around in his hand. Hana watches him for a moment, "If that girl's one thing, she's vengeful. You know, back in One, when we were training, all she'd ever talk about was how once she won the games, she was going to finally have the money to find her sister's murderer and get revenge on him. And when she said that she always had this mad look in her eye – that little twinkle that only the crazies have - it made me so scared I wanted to shit my pants. And you know how many years that happened ago?"

"How many?"

"Eleven. That's a hell of a long time. I honestly would have forgotten about it if I were her. She holds a grudge for ages. I bet when she's dead she'll hold her grudges for an eternity, and when that little bastard Pilate dies too, I bet she'll find him in the afterlife and kick his butt."

Hana turns back toward Valentine. "So you think she's going to come back and kill him?"

"I never said that," Clay mutters. "All I said is that girl is batshit crazy. I don't know if I want her to come back."

"You don't mean that, do you?" Hana gawks. "She's our ally – our friend. You've known her for a long time too, how many years now? Four? Five? You surely must have some attachment to her."

He smiles devilishly at her. "You're too optimistic of me."

Hana sighs. "Well, even if you don't, I have some attachment to her. Whether she comes back or not – we're going after Pilate and getting revenge on him for doing this to her, killing Archie too. I don't let things like this go unpunished."

Clay looks down at his feet, not responding. If Hana didn't know any better, she'd say he looked a little nervous, but then again, he's Clay. The "golden boy" probably doesn't get nervous.

"Are you alright?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

He nods. "Just thinking," he mutters under his breath, a little too quiet for Hana's liking.

"About what?" she questions, still smiling at him.

"Things," he replies vaguely.

"What type of things?"

"So many questions all of a sudden," he quips back, narrowing his eyes at her and straightening his back tensely.

She gulps, backing up against the crates they propped Valentine's limp body on. Something about this doesn't feel right.

"Oh, you know, I like to know all I can," she chuckles nervously, smiling up at him. "I guess it's just the student in me."

He walks up to her, places a hand on her shoulder, then begins to chuckle. "I guess so, superfan." He pauses suddenly, then looks up and out, toward the entrance to the cornucopia. "Hey, I think I just heard something outside. Want to check it out?"

She nods her head quickly, elated at the thought of swiping her sword into the warm, sticky flesh of another tribute. Grabbing her naginata, she barrels out the exit and into the darkness of the night, blade raised, senses heightened.

* * *

 _Manisha Rollins, 15._

 _District Eleven Female._

* * *

For a minute there, for a spilt-second, she actually thought that maybe she'd actually be acknowledged.

She doesn't even have to be liked. She just, for once in her life, wants to feel like an actual, real live person.

After all, she did save Winnifred and Takei from dying. She thought that after that, they'd maybe tell her thank you, or even, at least, just wonder how she got her hands on a taser.

(It was her token; she found it one day in the styling room and decided to hold on to it. Her stylist didn't bother to even check her for contraband when she entered the arena, probably because he didn't think a girl as small, timid, and feeble as her would dare do anything illegal, or maybe he just forgot, so she got away with it.)

Instead, all Winnifred seemed to care about was that she injured a career. In Manisha's mind, the ax she threw barely scratched him, but apparently, Winnifred seems to have seen the event from a completely different angle. As they fled, she wouldn't stop exclaiming about how she almost took down a career single-handedly. Manisha wonders what rose-colored glasses she's looking through if that's what she truly saw. her other ally also didn't notice, too focused on Winnifred's wounds to be thinking of anything else. She bets he asked her if she was okay at least fifty times already today.

And every time she would reply: "Yes, of course, I'm fine. You think I'd die carelessly on the first day like some scrawny kid from the outer districts?"

Manisha guesses that Winnifred probably doesn't have enough self-awareness to realize that the "scrawny kid" she was referencing was her, but either way, it hurts.

And of course, every time Takei would respond, "Okay, I was just checking. I just care about you and don't want you to get more hurt."

She never seemed to take the hint that he liked her, and that every time he talked to her Takei's face turned a rosy shade of red. Manisha noticed all these things easily and wondered how Winnifred could miss each and every one of these clear and blatant signs. She realizes that she's beginning to grow a bit angry just thinking about how all that attention could just be wasted like that, and stops her hands from curling up into tight balls. If only someone could pay attention to her like that, then maybe she'd be a little less jealous of the two of them.

She'll never admit that she's jealous of Winnifred though, not ever. But secretly, in her own mind, she wishes that she was her. Winnifred, while not the sharpest knife in the drawer, seems sure of herself, confident. That's more than Manisha can say for herself.

The three of them sit in the circle on the ground, shielded from the wind by a crumbling wall that probably once belonged to a house. They are huddled around a small fire Takei and Winnifred had built with tiny black sticks they found scattered about the landscape. Far in the distance, another faint fire twinkles, and Manisha wonders who it belongs to. She had been the only person in her small alliance to protest building a fire, as it seemed too risky for her and made them an easy target for someone like the careers to find, but Winnifred and Takei had outruled her in a vote. Winnifred claimed if anyone came she'd just scare them off by making bear noises, and Manisha doubted that would seriously work, but didn't protest. No one would probably listen to her opinion anyway, like usual. Also like usual, Takei just went along blindly with whatever Winnifred suggested, no doubt wanting to impress her. Sometimes, it seems if she's the only one in this alliance with an ounce of common sense.

"So, what do you think the plan for tomorrow should be?" Takei asks, turning to Winnifred.

"Let's head toward the city," Winnifred suggests.

Manisha shakes her head timidly. "Uh, guys – I – I – I don't know if that's a good idea. Everyone's heading to the city, and Winnifred, with your wounds, I don't know if we can make it. For your sake—"

Winnifred cuts her off. "I'm perfectly fine, Manida, alright? Like I said before, I'm not some little weak outer district tribute. I'm strong. I can take a few hits."

Manisha feels the anger rise up in her again, but pushes it back down, stifling it inside.

Her name is _not_ Manida. And outer district tributes don't always die on the first day, take her for example. She's still alive.

Taking a deep breath, she turns back to Winnifred and nods politely.

"Okay, let's head toward the city tomorrow then," she mutters almost noncoherently, smiling warmly up at her. Her mother always taught her that even if others weren't kind to her, she should still be friendly back. She can think whatever she wants in her head, but on the outside, she still has to be nice. Winnifred was no exception.

"Are you sure?" Takei question almost as if on cue, scanning her body up and down. "We just want to make sure you're okay. I'm you're not, you can tell us. It's alright. We'll still think you're awesome. After all, you did almost take down a career today."

Winnifred's face lights up, and Takei's turns a pinkish-red again. "You're right, I did. I probably would have killed him too if _someone_ didn't stop us."

Manisha stays silent. _You probably would have been dead if someone didn't stop you._

Takei nods. "Probably. So, we all good to head toward the city tomorrow?"

No, she thinks to herself, but just nods her head up and down yes. She doesn't have the energy or courage to fight the two of them right now.

Yawning, Manisha stretches her arms into the air. "How about we go to bed?" she suggests. "I'm really tired, and if we're heading toward the city tomorrow, we have a long walk."

She can see that Takei open his mouth as if he's about to agree with her, but then, Winnifred cuts him off.

"But we have the perfect opportunity to tell scary stories to each other! We have a campfire, and food, right? And there are people lurking in the bushes around us, ready to pounce and kill us!" With those words, she taps Takei on the shoulder, causing him to shoot up in fright.

Winnifred and him break into a chuckle, and she tries to laugh along too but finds that her heart just isn't really in it.

"Do you really think we should be eating all our food now, though?" Takei questions. "We only have two packs of crackers. My dads back in Eleven always taught us to save what we have, and ration it off. We might not be able to find another source of food for a while—"

"Well, we're not in your little commune anymore," Winnifred declares, still laughing. "Right Manida? This is the real world, and we're free to do what we want. You're free to sit there and pout, and I'm free to eat all the food that can fit in my stomach."

"I think Takei has a point, though. We should—"

"Well, I think you're a buzzkill. We should eat."

And with that, Winnifred opens one of the packages and begins to shovel food into her mouth carelessly.

Meanwhile, Takei is making his move, stretching up as if to yawn, then lowering his arm down around Winnifred's shoulder. Manisha watches to see if her ally notices, but she seems to be too focused on how many crackers she can fit in her mouth to realize anything else is happening.

Manisha lays back on the cold, dusty ground as Winnifred begins to tell Takei some story about ghosts haunting her house. Wrapping her arms around her head, she tries not to listen. Real life is already scary enough as it is.

* * *

 _Freyja Abbott, 18._

 _District Three Female._

* * *

They haven't stopped moving since the bloodbath ended, and Freyja's eyelids are beginning to droop. She's fallen a bit behind her ally, who has been keeping a brisk, superhuman pace this entire time. He's practically been running for almost 4 hours straight, and she has no idea how he doesn't even look the least bit tired.

On the other hand, she's feeling tired, crabby, and all around awful. But she didn't expect to feel just peachy after killing her best and only friend either, so she guesses it's only natural. However, she's trying not to think about that now; she's trying not to think of that ever.

After a bit or so more, she abruptly decides to stop walking and takes a seat on the side of the road.

"We're stopping here for the night," she declares.

Pilate turns around sharply. "And since when did you think you were the one calling the shots?"

"Since forever ago," she retorts back confidently, crossing her arms over her chest. "I, for one, thought this was a mutual partnership. That's what we agreed to during training. So, I get to make as many decisions as you do. You made the decision to head toward the city, and I'll make the decision to rest here for a few hours."

"No."

"Excuse me?" she asks, narrowing her eyes back at him.

"I said no."

"Well, I say yes. Why do you want to keep going? You afraid the careers are going to find us?"

He shakes his head quicker than she can bat an eyelash. "No, I'm not afraid of anyone."

"Then why do you want to put as much distance between the cornucopia and us as possible?" she asks, raising a brow.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," Pilate snarls. "If I say walk, you walk. Simple. Even a monkey could understand it."

"Well, I say no," she retorts back, not moving from her spot on the ground.

"I hate to break it to you, princess, but your daddy's not here to bully everyone into doing whatever you demand," Pilate hisses. "We're walking until I tell you to stop."

She smiles up back at him. "Well I hate to break it to you, angsty guitar player, but you're talking to the wrong person. I'm not some little puppet you can manipulate. I do what I want, when I want. I'm not afraid of you, or—"

"Who told you I play the guitar?" Pilate snaps, and even in the dark of the night, Freyja can see his eyes blazing with anger.

"Hana. I asked her to tell me everything she knows about you on the way up to our floor after the interviews. She told me you were homeless, lived on the streets, and the only way you made money is by playing your guitar like a beggar. A sad, sad beggar. Couldn't even hold a job. So yeah, don't tell me what to do."

He grits his teeth together. "Hana's a liar."

She raises a brow in amusement and stands to her feet to face him. She can feel the hair on the back of her neck bristle. "Oh yeah? The girl who knows everything about everything lied. Sure. I _totally_ believe that."

"Well, she lied. She knows I'm the biggest threat in the games and she'll do whatever it takes to undermine me."

"I'll believe that as soon as I see pigs fly."

Suddenly, she sees Pilate's hand rocket toward her, Valentine's cat claws shining in the faint light of the moon. Before she even has a chance to back away, the claws rake against the skin on her teeth, drawing blood. She screeches and pulls away, gripping her torn skin.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Talking back."

She blinks at him in the dim light, blood dripping down her cheek. For a moment, everything is silent, save for the drip, drip, dripping of blood falling onto the pavement below her feet. She instantly thinks of Sky, of the blood pouring from her chest, of seeing his rolled back eyes, stained red—

She stops herself. It was an accident. She couldn't help it. She needs to put it past her and tell herself that's all it was, an accident.

"You're a psychopath," she spits.

"I never said I wasn't."

"Fuck you," she growls, sitting back down on the ground. "And I'm staying, so if you want to leave, be my guest."

When he turns around and starts walking without even a word, she's stunned. She thought she meant a bit more to him than that. But apparently, all she is to him is someone to use, a puppet who will listen to his every command. Get the weapons. Keep walking. Don't stop.

But she gave up everything to be here. Her alliance. Her integrity. Her values. Her friend.

And now he's dead. She couldn't have just killed him all for nothing.

So a minute later, she comes running to up to Pilate and continues to follow him through the darkness of the night, blind as a bat, like a lamb to the slaughter.

* * *

 _Braxton "Brax" Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

Like usual, he's running away from his problems.

After the bloodbath, he ran. He ran like hell away from there, away from the careers, away from the blood, and away from what he did to his allies. He ran as far away as he could, toward the outermost edges of the arena. He didn't want to ever think about what happened in the cornucopia again.

Yet, it's not for the reason he would have previously thought. Indirectly killing Coral wasn't the thing that was bothering him. Instead, the worst part about what happened is that now, he doesn't even feel phased. Betraying Coral, even after telling her that she could trust him with her life, felt natural, almost, like a skill he was good at. The fact that he lied right to her face and didn't feel bad afterward is what scares him the most. He's always prided himself on having somewhat good morals. He's not a saint, no, he has made some pretty carelessly thought-out decisions and did run away from home because of an argument he had with his parents. However, he never thought he'd be a cold-blooded sociopath.

Crazier things have happened, though.

To make him feel a bit better, he tells himself that the reason he feels alright about pushing her to her doom is that it's not like she would have lived much longer anyway. These are the Hunger Games, and the point is to kill. If he didn't do it, someone else would have. Alliances are made to be betrayed, and trust is meant to be broken. After all, only one person can make it out of here alive. Looking at it from an efficient, utilitarian point of view, he didn't do anything wrong. All he did was make it easier for that survivor to be him.

Now it's dark, and he finds himself in a strange looking place that he doesn't remember running into. Looking back, all he can see is sand for what seems like miles and miles. He knows from watching past games that it's probably just an illusion: arenas are never that big. They need to be small enough for tributes to encounter one another and make it a show. Yet, the appearance of being in the middle of a vast, isolated desert makes him feel even more alone. Having worked long, solitary nights in the butcher shop back home, loneliness one of the last things he would have thought would feel.

Turning back, he sees a small silhouette standing in the sand about a hundred or so yards away, and he realizes he isn't as alone as he previously thought. Gripping his machete tightly in his hands, he squints his eyes and tries to make out who the figure is. However, it's too dark to make the person's identity out.

"Hello?" he calls out, taking a step closer.

The figure doesn't respond or move, and he wonders if his mind is already starting to play tricks on him. However, when he blinks his eyes, the shadowy person is still there, standing stagnantly against a black backdrop.

"It's okay," he yells a bit louder, wondering if it's the deaf boy. "I won't hurt you."

It's a lie, and both of them seem to know it, because the figure yells back this time. "I don't care what your intentions are, don't come near me!"

The lowness of the voice makes Braxton figure it's a guy. And by his response, it's probably not a career or Pilate either. And not the deaf boy, because he wouldn't have responded. So that means it's most likely the timid boy from Eight who wouldn't step near a weapon during training, or the boy from Twelve, but he always had that little girl following him around. So probably the prior.

"Okay!" Braxton shouts back, the turns around and begins to walk away. However, if the boy thinks Braxton's going to let him go, he's a dummy. An instant later, Braxton falls to the ground and begins to crawl toward the boy, trying to stay as low to the sandy ground as possible as to not be detected. The boy, most likely curious as to where Braxton mysteriously disappeared to so suddenly, walks toward him wearily.

A few minutes later, he spots Braxton on the ground, but by then, it's too late. The boy lets out a frightened yelp and breaks into a sprint in the opposite direction, and Braxton springs up, barreling after the boy. His opponent is fast, but speed has always been the District Ten boy's forte, and within about 30 seconds, he's all caught up.

Springing forward, Braxton collides with the boy and tackles him to the ground. He's so skinny, Braxton, who generally has a smaller frame than most others of his age, has no trouble pummeling him into the sand.

"Please!" the boy yelps frantically. "Don't kill me! I'm not ready to die!"

Braxton ignores him, grabbing his machete and slicing it across the boy's back as he unsuccessfully tries to scamper to his feet. He yelps in pain as it slashes across his skin, and collapses onto the ground.

"Please! I implore you! I can't die, I haven't lived enough! Have mercy on a guy, please!"

Before Braxton has a chance to take another swipe at him, he flips himself over and looks at Braxton with wide, terrified eyes. They shimmer with uncertainty and fear.

Braxton should feel some sort of sympathy, but instead, doesn't feel anything.

It scares him more than anything he's ever felt in his entire life.

Maybe he just needs to unlock it. Maybe if he saves this boy, it'll come back. If he saves him, maybe it'll be enough to convince himself that he's a decent human being.

"Alright," Braxton murmurs, lowering his machete.

"Alright?" the boy gawks as if he didn't expect this to happen.

Braxton nods. "Yeah, I'm not a senseless person. But that doesn't mean I'm letting you off for nothing. You're going to help me."

"H-help you?" he twitches, his eyes still wide with fear. Braxton can see his body shaking nervously, his limbs twitching. "W-w-with what?"

"Something," Braxton mutters, "I just haven't thought of it yet. But if you help me, I'll let you live, alright? Because I have mercy. I'm a good guy. But don't think about running, because if you do, I'll kill you. Okay?"

The boy below him nods his head almost faster than he can blink.

"Here," Braxton offers, "let me help you up. And I don't think we've met. What's your name again?"

"G-Gareth," the boy stutters, and when Braxton lifts him up, he can feel his limbs tremble. "W-what's y-your name?"

"Braxton."

"W-what happened to all your allies? I-I-though you had a bunch."

Braxton frowns at him. "Don't worry about it, alright?"

Gareth's eyes widen even further, and for a second, he thinks the boy is going to faint. But he doesn't, and he just nods, and shakes Braxton's hand weakly over and over again, like a broken robot.

"T-t-thank you for s-saving me," Gareth stutters again, still shaking like there was an earthquake at his core.

Braxton smiles at him. "You're welcome."

See, he's not such a bad guy after all.

* * *

 _Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Male._

* * *

He hates himself for doing this.

He wants to be the golden boy they all think he is, he really does. He wants to be their perfect victor, their gallant knight; he wants to live up to everyone's expectations and not let a single person down. In his mind, it's the second biggest flaw of his, behind his narcolepsy: he needs to please people. All throughout his life, he's done things to make others happy. He's hidden his narcolepsy from One to make his parents happy. He combed his hair a certain way to make girls like him. His friends always told him he'd make an excellent tribute, and here he is. Yes, he does like training, but without their nudges, he doubts he'd be here now, covering the camera he spotted at the side of the cornucopia and walking over the limp body of Valentine, sword in hand.

Just a few moments ago, while talking to Hana, he saw his district partner stir. She's coming back, and once she wakes up, he knows that there will be no stopping her and Hana from tracking down Pilate and getting their revenge they covet so dearly. However, he doesn't feel the same way as they do about the boy from Two. Clay's never been driven by revenge like the girls of his alliance have; when someone punches him in the face, he never has the urge to punch them back. Plus, he's seen the damage Pilate can do. He hates to admit it to himself, but he's scared as hell to fight him, and if Valentine wakes up, that fight is inevitable. But if she doesn't, the chances of him persuading the somewhat gullible Hana to forget it are higher. She already fell for his trick a few minutes ago; with more effort, he bets that he can convince her to forgo chasing after the District Two boy too.

Deep down, he knows that he can't beat Pilate, especially with his narcolepsy that's become frequenter and frequenter as the games have neared. It hasn't happened yet, but that means it's only a matter of time. He just has a feeling that when he fights that boy, his emotions are going to run high and he won't be able to control them. That's usually when his narcolepsy appears.

And he promised everyone in One he'd return. He promised his friends. His mother. His younger siblings. He can't let them down. He can't face Pilate and show them all his biggest flaw, the secret he's been hiding for years and desperately hoping will go away. He can't show them he's not perfect, even if he already knows he's isn't. He'll do anything to maintain his pristine reputation, even betray his closest allies.

So here he is, sword drawn and positioned to kill. He can hear Hana's footsteps circling the cornucopia, trying to find something that doesn't exist. It was almost too easy to convince her something was out there even when he knows she didn't hear anything; her desperation to kill, to sink the blade of her weapon into someone's else's flesh is so apparent is practically radiates off her like a pungent smell. It's as if she has an addiction to killing and will do anything to alleviate the withdrawal symptoms, even chase down something she knows isn't out there.

He feels bad for playing her, but if it gets him one step closer to the crown, it's not beneath him.

But it doesn't stop him for hating himself for it, for the person he's becoming: a coward. At least being cold-blooded is better than a narcoleptic, imperfect monster.

He looks down at his district partner's face, stained red with crusty blood. The totality of her upper lip is that dark, crimson shade, almost black like a charred bread crust. Where her left eye should be is only a black hole, that same, crusty red substance oozing out like an infection. Valentine would never sink this low. She's all about fairness and equality. She'd never kill someone who couldn't fight back.

Well, he's not her.

Still, for her, he'll make this quick. Lifting her face upward, he places his sharp blade underneath her chin and positions his other hand on the nape of her neck.

Three,

Two,

O—

"Clay!" Hana shouts, and he instantly staggers back at looks up at her, his eyes wide with fear.

He opens his mouth to explain, but Hana beats him to it.

"You woke her up!" she shrieks happily, then rushes toward Valentine, who miraculously, is beginning to stir. She lifts her head off the makeshift table and blinks her eyes sleepily as if she's just woken up from a dream.

The two girls embrace, and Hana instructs Valentine to rest, to go slowly, and all he can think is that he blew his one chance and that now, there's no going back.

He's going to have to fight Pilate, or he's going to have to die trying.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Sorry that took a while, I got a lot more busy than I thought I would be the past month. I unexpectedly decided to do a winter sport at my school, so that's eating up most of my time and honestly, when I get home I've been so exhausted I don't feel like writing. I also got a drawing tablet and have been procrastinating way too much with that, haha. But maybe I'll draw some characters from this story. Probably a few of my favorites, but we'll see._

 _Hope you liked this chapter, it was a little long, especially for one with no deaths! But I thought there was enough action in it to keep it going, or at least, I hope. Tell me what you think anyways._

 _Hopefully I'll have another chapter up by Christmas, and hopefully two by 2019! But if I hit a stride maybe more. Anyway, hope to finish this story by next spring, though I'm debating writing a third. I was planning to write a trilogy with this, but I don't know if I'll have the time. Probably will end up finishing this, though._

 _Alliances:_

 _Careers: Clay, Valentine, Hana_

 _Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja_

 _Sibs: Luna, Sol_

 _Still babysitting: Winnifred, Takei, Manisha_

 _An alliance, now?: Gareth, Braxton_

 _Both unstable ticking time bombs: Lennox, Eliora_

 _Our fav duo: Mortimer, North_

 _Loners: Tyrell, Terra, Marguerite_

 _See you next time! And thanks for passing my Crimson review count, you all rock!_

 _paper :)_


	31. Day II: Nothing Is That Simple

_Day II: Nothing Is That Simple_

* * *

 _Solomon Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Male._

* * *

The morning of the second day, he wakes up with shimmering tears in his eyes.

It's a strange feeling, sadness. For so long, the pills have numbed him until he can feel nothing. His body has felt empty for so long that he almost forgot what sadness felt like. A dull, constant aching is all that the pills reduced him to, but now that he's finally been off them for long enough, he remembers why he took the pills in the first place. Sadness hurts. Actually, it burns. He finds that the tears keep coming but he doesn't know why. He tries to wipe them away, but black sand gets in his eyes and only makes them sting even more.

Sitting up, he can see through his blurry vision that Luna's still sleeping soundlessly beside him, her body rising and falling. He looks peaceful almost as if she's dreaming of good things. He doesn't doubt that she is. On the other hand, the few moments he slept last night were littered with dark nightmares, of cold fingers that were blue at their tips and of footsteps following him through the dark, their owner invisible. Of screaming until his lungs were flat, out of air, and of strange looking mutts that looked almost uncannily like Luna chasing him through the collapsing, black ruins. Of his sister dying right in front of him, screaming for help, and him being powerless to do anything but watch. At some points during the night, it was hard to tell if he was dreaming or awake. Everything felt so real, so vivid. He guesses it's because things two weeks ago that would have been deemed crazy fantasies are actual, possible scenarios now.

He remembers that his therapist once told him walking in nature might clear his thoughts and make him feel better. He disregarded her advice entirely then but decides that now he has nothing better to do rather than wait until his sister wakes up. The black, dead landscape isn't exactly natural, but right now, it's the best he's got. Maybe if he's lucky he'll even find some edible food out in the charred wilderness, but he doubts it.

He slowly climbs to his feet, trying to be as silent as possible as not to wake Luna. He does feel slightly nervous leaving her here alone, but he decides to trust that they picked a location for their hideout that was hidden well. Sliding out of the crumbling house, he walks out onto what probably used to be a street, though now it was nothing more than a somewhat straight depression in the earth. The sky is a light green, pretty if it didn't mean everything around him was probably as toxic and unnatural as the color.

As he walks, he's surprised that he does start to feel slightly better, though the sinking feeling in his stomach is still there. His tears eventually dry, and he does find a blueberry bush on the side of one of the destroyed houses. He checks once to make sure it isn't nightlock, then slides a few dozen berries into his pocket and turns back, hoping to be back by the time that Luna walks up.

However, on his walk back, he spots another bush, this one looking slightly different than the last. The berries are still that darkish hue, yes, but they have the luster to them that the other berries didn't possess. He instantly knows what they are, and continues to walk past them, telling himself over and over again that he won't need them, and that the only way he's dying is by protecting Luna.

It doesn't stop the fact that during training, his eyes did glaze over that page for a bit longer than they should.

 _Maybe Luna would be better off without him,_ he had thought as he looked at the picture of the berries three days ago. _Maybe she'd be better with other, more capable allies. Maybe I'm just weighing her down, being a burden as usual. Maybe I should find these as quick as possible and just kill myself so she's free of having to protect me or be scarred by seeing her brother die a more gruesome, savage way._

But he had decided against it, as when he asked Luna if she wanted to find new, stronger allies, she had responded that he was the best ally she could ask for.

That had settled it, at least for then.

"It's still settled," he says out loud, and continues by the bush, his eyes focused on the ground beneath him.

Yet, a minute later he finds himself running back to the berries, sliding a few in his pocket. He looks around sheepishly, embarrassed of what he's doing. But he knows it's only natural. Old habits die hard, and his suicidal thoughts still haven't completely materialized, even though he promised Luna he wouldn't do anything rash and wouldn't leave her until he had to.

But the same thoughts that he had while looking at the picture of the berries in the book are flooding back, washing over his brain like a tidal wave.

Maybe she is better without him.

Maybe he's just weighing her down.

He's just a burden, a suicidal, unstable burden.

It'd be easier for both of them if he was just dead. It would cause both of them much less pain. He knows the Capitol isn't going to let them die without making it a head-lurching, tear-jerking show. These games are their entertainment, after all. They have to make them emotional.

It'd be better for both of them if he just slipped a few in right this minute. She wouldn't even know what happened. Maybe it would be better that way.

But he knows he can't leave her. Not now, at least.

He tells himself the berries are for _just in case_ , but he knows deep down that that's not entirely the truth.

* * *

 _Terra McIntosh, 18._

 _District Seven Female._

* * *

She's starting to regret leaving her allies behind.

All she has to survive with the next few days are her wits and the things in the bag slung over her back. A flashlight, which she's too scared to even use at night, a sleeping bag, three packs of dried fruit, a half-canteen of water, a piece of bread that's beginning to go stale, and a dull butter knife that couldn't cut skin even if she knew how to use it. The food will probably last her two more days, and the water, well—she's trying not to think how short that little bit will take to run out. And in this arena, the only water she's seen has been a small pond on the side of the road, but the liquid—which certainly was not water—was just as black and diluted as the rest of her surroundings. If she had a purifier, as Lennox and Eliora did, that'd be a different story. But she burned that bridge, just like she burned so many others back at home.

A part of her wonders if Eliora and Lennox would let her back in. Lennox probably would – they had an alright relationship. For her, anything better than a bad one was excellent, so putting it in perspective, they were as close as any relationship she's ever had before. But Eliora, on the other hand, probably would vehemently deny her offer. She had no idea why, but the two of them clashed more than two fighting bulls. Maybe it's because Eliora, unlike Lennox, wouldn't go blindly along with her plan. Or maybe it's because Terra was jealous of her former ally's clear skin and pretty auburn hair that she had wished so many times she could have for herself. Instead, she's just an ugly, too-tall brown thing with more acne scars than she can count on her fingers. Or most probably is the fact that she was envious of Terra and Lennox's relationship. It's was evident from the beginning that Lennox liked Eliora better, and it sucked, being that the jocular, go-lucky boy reminded her so much of her son. She was the reason he was dead, and all she wanted was another chance to make it right, but again, she screwed it up.

The reason for their clashing didn't matter now though, because she was alone, and was supposedly going through with her plan of attacking the cornucopia. However, she's also gotten somewhat cold feet on that plan too. When she formulated it, she honestly wasn't thinking clearly and just wanted to do something that Eliora clearly didn't. Yes, it was petty, but she never said that she wasn't.

Plus, she needs to wait long enough for the sign, and if she dies, she knows her mentor will not be happy. Daffodil told her to stay out of trouble at all costs, because in time if everything goes to plan, they'll be in enough of it anyway. But like usual, she didn't want to listen. She never wants to listen.

In the distance, she can see the cornucopia's golden shell gleaming brightly in the sunlight. She nervously gulps, her hands beginning to sweat. Suddenly, she feels hot.

A butter knife is enough to kill three careers, right?

She doesn't want to answer her own question.

Looking backward, she sees a perfectly fine car, rusted and old, rotting on the side of the crumbling road. What probably used to be electrical wires have fallen over it, and a black coating of sand covers its glass windshield. It'd be the perfect hiding place for someone like her to wait it out, and think about the magnitude of her decision a little longer.

Maybe it's not too late to start listening.

* * *

 _Gareth Emory, 18._

 _District Eight Male._

* * *

Braxton sits across from him, drawing strange maps and diagrams in the black sand with his finger. He's been mumbling plans of how to get supplies for the past hour, because right now, the two of them have none. While that's not a problem for Gareth, he'd rather be without supplies than without his life, apparently for Braxton, it's a big issue.

"So, if we storm the cornucopia like this, and you come from the side like this—"

"I am not going anywhere in a 20-foot radius that golden death-trap," Gareth replies vehemently, shaking his head back and forth.

"Okay, then how about I come in like this—" he murmurs, drawing a fat line in the sand toward the x-mark in the middle "-and you stay back, I can throw you the supplies."

"No."

Braxton's ear twitches and Gareth can see he's beginning to get slightly aggravated. Honestly, he could care less. Braxton is making him takes risks that could get him killed, all without his consent, so it's evident why he's not going to agree to anything.

"Okay," Braxton starts again, his voice a bit sharper, "how about we go at night, so they can't see us? You can be the bait—"

"Absolutely not."

The boy across from him clenches his teeth together, then takes a deep breath. "Alright, if you're such a genius, what do you suggest then?"

"I suggest we stay out here, away from everyone and everything. We can sit here in silence and save our energy. It's the best plan I've calculated to make me live the longest and encountering the least number of dangerous situations as possible. And trust me, I've thought about this for a while. Probably at least two years of my life has been spent thinking about how I would survive the Hunger Games."

Braxton rolls his eyes. "Two years for a plan that sounds like it's made to get us both killed? What a waste of time. You have almost no chance of being reaped."

"It wasn't a waste of time," he retorts back. "We're both here, aren't we?"

Braxton unsheathes his machete, making Gareth literally jump back two feet. "But only one of us has a weapon, am I right?"

"Y-yo—you are c—c—cor—correct," Gareth stutters, his eyes wide. "S-sir."

"Don't call me sir. It makes me sound like I'm some authority figure, like President Heron. Blech. And this is an alliance, remember? We're making decisions together. That's what a nice, kind, generous, non-sociopathic ally would do, right?"

Gareth doesn't respond, blinking at him. If Braxton didn't have that crazy look in his eye, he might have tried to be witty and echoed Braxton's previous statement about only one of them having a weapon. However, he decides against it; the risk factor is too great. He could slice of Gareth's head with one clean swoop and that could be the end of it, and that's what Gareth was trying to avoid in the first place.

"Right?" Braxton says again when he realizes Gareth isn't going to reply. Narrowing his eyes, Braxton moves his machete a little closer. "I saved you, right?"

"T-that you did."

"That means I'm a good person. I'm no murderer, right?"

Gareth wouldn't agree, but for his own sake, he nods and says yes.

The crazy look in Braxton's eyes vanishes, and he smiles like nothing's wrong and puts his machete down. "Good, just wanted to make sure. Now, let's get back to forming a plan together, shall we?"

* * *

 _Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Male._

* * *

He's decided that being allies with North Brier is like being blindfolded with no seatbelt on an endless rollercoaster with a million random twists, drops and turns. Oh yeah, and that rollercoaster is in the middle of outer space, where gravity doesn't exist.

Doesn't make sense?

Exactly. That's his point.

One minute she's laughing about him hitting his head on a wall, and the next she's angry at him for laughing at her. Later, she'll be skipping through what she tells him she likes to think are fields of flowers (though they're really just black, dead, discarded ruins), and later, she'll be on the verge of tears. One minute he'll think that she's stable, and the next she'll be killing their ally because of some little, meaningless thing he said to her. Then she'll be half dead, bleeding out from multiple gashes, only to rise up again and flash him her signature, North Brier smile.

He'll never be able to understand her, and honestly, he's kind of at the point where he's done trying to.

He still can't fathom why he decided to _kill_ for her. He never thought he'd be able to do something like that: take someone else's life. Even if it meant getting home to his sister, he didn't think he had it in him. But for North, someone he didn't know existed until less than a week ago, he seemed to throw those morals and fears aside. She has this crazy effect on him, like he wants to protect her and slap her all at the same.

Right now, it's feeling more like the latter.

"When are we going to be there?" she asks for about the 40th time today.

"Shh," he shushes her and continues to follow the pair of footsteps through the sand, though as they near the city, they're beginning to taper off. He needs to stay focused if he wants to follow them, and North asking him what's going on every three seconds isn't exactly helping.

He can see her huff in annoyance out of the corner of his eyes, but right now, he doesn't really have the time or energy to deal with her constant mood swings.

"Okay, then maybe I'll tell a story to pass the time. I have a bunch, want to hear the one about the time I accidentally ate dog meat and not cow meat?"

Mortimer shakes his head, already feeling queasy just at the thought of it. "I'll pass."

"Okay. How about the one where I broke my leg while climbing a tree?"

He shakes his head again. "Just be quiet, alright?"

His ally sighs. "Fine. You know it's hard for me though."

His lips twist into a slight grin. "I know."

They surprisingly walk in silence for a while, following the footprints into the decaying city. North has stopped asking him questions, and now she's looking around with wide eyes at the tall, dark towers that loom over them. She looks to be a little awe-struck. He is too. A few weeks ago, he thought that the only things that could be this tall were trees. Now, after having been in the Capitol for a few days, and then the arena, he knows much better.

Still, even though the buildings are crumbling and enormous slabs of concrete seem to be missing from their walls as if a giant took a bite of out them, he's impressed. He wonders if they can go inside them. It probably wouldn't be the safest thing to do, but then again, nothing in the Hunger Games is safe. However, that's not their strategy right now. Their strategy right now is to weaken the other alliances, all while trying to stay out of as much danger as possible. That means finding other alliances before they mind them, using hit and run tactics to steal their supplies, possibly moderately injuring one of their members, then running as fast as they can away from there. It's the perfect, low-risk plan that assures that they'll always have enough supplies to live off of while also making sure the other alliances have less. Hopefully, if everything goes to plan, the other alliances will slowly die out while North and he stay strong.

Turning a corner, he continues to follow the faint footsteps as they round the bend. Squinting his eyes, he can see two small figures in the distance, dwarfed among the giant buildings. North seems to notice them too, for she grips her knife tighter and looks more alert. His plan worked, and he found who he was looking for. The Nine tributes.

In his estimation, they are the weakest alliance of the bunch, besides for maybe the twins, and now it seems that they're down a member, they'll be even easier to pick off. Plus, North had seen them take supplies from the cornucopia, so they are sure to still have some food and water, which North and Mortimer seem to already be dangerously low on.

"Finally," he hears North whisper under her breath. She, among other things, is probably one of the most impatient people he's ever met.

Now, all they need to do is wait for night to fall. Then, they attack.

Though, with North, he doubts it's going to just be that simple. Nothing so far has been just _that_ simple, and it probably won't ever be.

* * *

 **A/N:** _You didn't think I'd update so quickly, did you? Sorry this is another quieter chapter, I promise, it's only the calm before the storm. Next chapter will have dying, drama, and action - I can guarantee that much. As for the update day? I feel like I'm playing Russian roulette with that, at this point. It'll be before the end of the year, I can guarantee you that. Might be this week, might be the 31st._

 _Not much to say at this point. See you next time._

 _paper :)_


	32. Night II: Scream Bloody Murder

_Night II: Scream Bloody Murder_

* * *

 _Eliora Abraham, 16._

 _District Nine Female._

* * *

She almost jumps out of her skin when she hears an ominous-sounding dog howl in the distance.

Instinctively, her eyes dart over to Lennox, who is still in the same spot as he was in just a mere moment ago, wrapped in one of their sleeping bags inside of one of the buildings. She sighs in relief, her shoulders slumping as they let the tension out.

Good. She's not alone yet. She doesn't know what she'd do if Lennox died. Right now, he's the only thing she has. If he left or abandoned her, she'd have nothing left.

"I wonder if that dog's chasing a tribute," Lennox murmurs, looking up at the starless sky through the rafters. He sits up and looks over to her, blinking blankly.

"If it is, it's probably Terra," Eliora replies bitterly. "She's as stupid and impulsive as I was when I was five. Aren't you glad you stayed with me?"

Lennox nods. "I am glad I stayed with you, but I do still think Terra's alive. She's smart—she wouldn't do something like that to herself."

Eliora just smirks, not responding. Lennox is far too optimistic.

The boy lowers his head back to the ground, and eventually, she can hear his body rising and falling slowly. Resting her shoulders back on the grainy walls, she lets her eyes droop slowly closed. While Lennox did offer to keep watch earlier since she had stayed up all of last night, she had told him she had it covered. After all, she didn't want him running away on her in the middle of the night. Even though he had professed his loyalty to her, Eliora still didn't trust Lennox as far as she could throw him. Though, it's nothing really new: she's never trusted anyone, even people back home who she has known her entire life.

That being said, she's extremely tired. Eventually, despite her best efforts, she drifts off into a hazy sleep. It's the kind that waivers on the thin line of consciousness, and often, it's hard to tell if she's dreaming or awake.

Yet, she knows she's awake when she hears her ally shriek bloody murder.

Her eyes jolt open, and she instantly sees a dark figure looming over Lennox, yanking a knife out of his chest. In the other corner of her vision, she sees another short silhouette scooping up their supplies and stuffing it into some kind of bag. For a moment, her eyes indecisively dart between the two, trying to pick one to attack. On one side, if she goes for the tribute stabbing Lennox, it could possibly stab her too, and even kill her. She's weaponless and weak as a doe, with no fighting experience except the few hours trying to merely learn how to hold a knife during training. Also, the attackers could get away with her supplies and with almost no survival knowledge, she'd be dead within days anyway. However, if she goes after the tribute taking their stuff, Lennox could die, and she could be left all alone.

The choice is clear, and she dives toward Lennox, grabbing the figure by the ankles just before they stab the knife through Lennox's skin again. The ankles are thinner than Eliora thought they would be, and the figure easily falls over, light as a feather. Maybe she does have a chance.

Her optimism is quickly quelled though, for her opponent is much scrappier than she thought. They whip right back up, twist around, and punch her right in the nose. She falls to the ground, gripping the spot where the tribute hit her. Blood runs from her nostrils, and she hisses, standing up to try again.

But then the figure kicks her ribs, and she is thrown back down again, screaming as her body crunches against the hard concrete.

"Mortimer, you got everything?" the tribute who kicked her questions frantically. Mortimer. They must be the Twelve tributes.

Eliora tries to grab the girls' ankles, but this time she's ready, and the girl from Twelve just kicks at her hand, swatting it away.

"Yeah, let's get out of here!" the other assailant, whose name is apparently Mortimer, replies. Eliora can hear their heavy footsteps as they run out of the building, growing fainter as disappear down the street.

She rolls over onto her side, moaning. Crawling to her knees, she slowly makes her way over to Lennox, who is whimpering softly, lying motionless on the floor beside her.

"You still there?" she squeaks.

He whimpers louder in response, rolling onto his side to face her.

"I—I—t—h—hur—t—s—" he cries softly, grasping his hand outward. He tries to grab at her arm to squeeze it, but instead, misses and just runs his fingers through her hair, too weak to hold onto any strand.

She scrambles up to him, her eyes widening when she sees his wound. A gaping hole in his chest, blood festers, seeping outward over his skin like a well. Slowly, she touches a finger to the hole. He flinches back upon contact, and she does too.

He whimpers again, and rolls onto his other side, his fingers twitching.

"H-h—help me," he cries.

She doesn't know what to do. Sitting in the dark, she stares blankly at his body as he slowly curls up into a ball, crying softly to himself. She wishes she had some way to help him—not exactly for his sake, but for her own. If he dies, she'll be all alone. It won't be long before she's driven crazy. She needs to him to live if she wants to as well. Yet, she doesn't know the first thing about medicine, herbal remedies, or how to stitch a wound. All she can do is watch.

"Please don't leave me," she murmurs, resting a hand on his side.

He doesn't respond.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

His breathing only gets heavier.

"Please, Lennox. Please."

"T-t—erra," he stutters softly. "She-she knows how to use plants."

Eliora shakes her head. "She's not our ally anymore, remember? She betrayed us. You promised you wouldn't go back to her. You promised you would just stay with me."

Nothing.

"Please, Lennox. We don't need her."

"So are you going to heal me?" he snaps, his tone changing drastically.

Now it's her who doesn't respond. Instead, she sits there silently, her head beginning to hurt. If she doesn't want to be alone, she knows what she has to do. That doesn't mean she wants to do it though.

However, before she has a chance to decide, she spots a dark figure looming in the doorway, and her eyes widen again with fear.

"You've already taken everything from us," she hisses at them, assuming that it's one of the Twelves back to finish them off. "Go away."

But then the figure takes a step forward, and she realizes it's in fact not one of the Twelves, but rather, the one person who she'd least like to see again: Terra.

* * *

 _Terra McIntosh, 18._

 _District Seven Female._

* * *

"Get out," Eliora hisses at her as she hunches over the curled-up body of Lennox protectively. "Get the hell out of here."

Lennox just coughs up blood. With all the blood that's on the floor, she guesses she's semi-unconscious at best, though no cannon has sounded yet.

"I heard—" she begins, but the redheaded girl doesn't give her a chance to even start before she snarls again.

"You're not our ally anymore. You made your choice. Leave."

"I know," Terra begins, taking a step forward. "But-but—I—well—"

"But what?" Eliora snaps. "What happened to going after the careers? What happened to your brilliant plan? It didn't work? What a surprise."

She grimaces, lowering her head. She's always hated how regretful she's been, and before now, she's never tried to make it better. For everything bad that's happened to her in her life, she's just put in the past and tried to pretend like it never happened. But now she's trying to change that—she's trying to make things right for once in her life—and Eliora isn't letting her. She doesn't need to be reminded of her mistake and her impulsiveness. She already knows what she did.

"Look," she blurts, a hint of aggression to her voice, "Do you want to hear I screwed up? Because I did. I'm sorry I left the two of you. It was wrong. I don't know what was going through my mind when I thought I could single-handedly take down the careers. It was stupid. Impulsive. But I'm here now, and I know how to make medicine. I can help Lennox. I saw goldenseal growing on one of the buildings when I was coming here, and—"

"Why didn't you help earlier, then?" Eliora questions. "You were standing there long enough to hear our conversation, so odds are you were standing there when the Twelves attacked us too. This smells like a lie to me."

Terra gulps. It's true she was standing there when the Twelves stormed their hideout, and she didn't do anything because she didn't think they would hurt Lennox. If anything, she thought that Lennox would run and Eliora would be the one who got hurt. And she didn't come back because she cared about Eliora. That jealous, overbearing, controlling bitch can die for all she's concerned. Lennox is the one she cares about. He reminds her of her son, and she knows that if he died while she wasn't there she'd feel guilty about leaving him for the rest of her life. She couldn't save her son. But she could save Lennox.

"It doesn't matter," she mutters. "All that matters is that I'm here now and I can help him. You're his ally. Don't you want him to live?"

"Yes, but not if you're involved with it," Eliora hisses. "I'll save him myself."

Terra growls, beginning to get frustrated. She remembers now why she left. However, she takes a deep breath and doesn't let her frustration boil over like it did last time. "You know what? I'm going to go get the goldenseal right now. That'll give you some time to think about it. When I come back, I hope you have a change of heart. Don't do it for me. Do it for him."

Swinging her backpack around, she fishes out a half-emptied bag of dried fruit. She tosses it over to Eliora.

"Here. Take this as a peace offering. Or an apology, whatever you prefer."

Then she turns around sharply, heading out into the cold night. She walks a few blocks down before flicking on her flashlight. Searching around the area, she spots the golden flowers growing in an overgrown garden near one of the buildings. She saws them off of their stems with her butter knife and then flicks off her flashlight, heading back to Eliora and Lennox's hideout.

She enters back in through the doorway and sees Eliora in the same spot where she left Lennox, hunched over him, her hand gripping his face and slapping it as if that will wake him up out of his daze.

When Terra enters, she turns back and chucks the packet of dried fruit right at her. It misses entirely, though Eliora didn't miss getting her point across.

Terra feels her hands clench into small balls of anger.

"You're so selfish and dumb," the District Seven girl blurts out angrily.

Eliora smiles sweetly up at her, "Not as dumb as you," she coos, and that's when Terra loses it.

Too bad for trying to change.

Lunging forward, she flies toward Eliora, the butter knife that she cut the goldenseal with in hand. The girl from Nine has too slow of a reaction, and less than a second later, Terra's opposite fist is in her face, swiping across her chin. Eliora yelps as her head bangs against the floor, and Terra jolts forward, grabbing her by her long, fine hair and dragging her away from Lennox. However, she doesn't go silently, and before Terra can get her more than a few feet away from her district partner, she grabs at Terra's foot, pulling it out from underneath her. Terra loses her balance and soars to the ground, the butter knife falling out of her hand and clattering onto the concrete beneath them.

Then, it's a mad scramble to the knife, though Terra doesn't really know why she's running toward it. Its end is almost as round as a circle. If it couldn't cut through the stale piece of bread in her bag this morning, it's not going to cut through flesh right now. But desperate times do call for desperate measures.

Eliora reaches the knife first, and quickly whips around and tries to stab it at Terra. But she's slow, and Terra has more than enough time to roll out of the way before Eliora can even get close to hitting her.

Again and again, Eliora tries in vain to stab at her, missing by a landslide every time. Finally, in a huff of frustration, she hurls the knife toward Terra, grunting as she releases.

But like all her other attempts, it misses its intended target. However, it doesn't miss everything.

Before Eliora can realize what she just stabbed, a cannon sounds sharply.

There's a split second of silence after the cannon, but then it's quickly filled by Eliora's shrill scream.

Scrambling about on the ground, Terra quickly finds the flashlight she dropped while she lunged at Eliora. Flicking it on, she points it at Lennox. Or rather, what's left of Lennox under all the black, oozing blood.

In the center of his body is the rusted butter knife that two minutes ago, Terra didn't even think could cut the stale bread in her bag if she tried. Now, it's surrounded by a pool of blood. Her eyes widen, and her stomach drops.

Eliora just killed Lennox.

However, the girl from Nine doesn't seem to have seen the same thing.

"You killed him!"

Terra's eyes widen. "Me? I killed him?"

"Yes! It was your knife! If you never came here and tried to help, he'd still be alive!"

Before she has time to respond, Eliora comes from behind and tackles her to the ground. They both fall onto Lennox's body, blood smearing onto their faces, clothes, and bodies. They roll around for a bit, wrestling each other in the blood. Neither is strong enough to do any real damage, and they just pull each other's hair and scratch at each other for a few minutes before collapsing onto the ground, gasping for air.

* * *

 _Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District One Female._

* * *

Everything hurts.

She walks around the cornucopia, Clay and Hana watching her with curious eyes. They've been having her to exercises all day. It's all been mostly stupid things like lifting her leg as far as she can and putting pressure on different parts of her body to see if the joint will react, and honestly, she's beginning to get a bit tired of it. The Hunger Games aren't a physical therapy class. She came here to fight, not bend all her fingers individually and see if they hurt.

Everyone else seems to want her to fight too. She's been getting sponsor gifts all day—braces for her legs, capitol medicine with notes saying the liquids and pills will heal all her injuries in a few days. Well, everything except her eye, that is. When she first woke up, Clay told her it was gone forever and there was no way she was getting it back, and yes, she was a little sad at first, but then she envisioned herself slowly tearing out both of Pilate's eyes as he screamed for mercy and she almost instantly felt a lot better.

"The medicine seems to be working really well," Hana mutters, narrowing her dark eyes at Valentine. "I've never seen anything like it. Capitol technology is crazy these days. I bet by tomorrow, you'll be ready to start practicing fighting, and then the day after maybe you'll even be ready to go after Pilate!"

Valentine nods, flashing Hana a big smile as if to show her that everything felt amazing. Yet, right now, nothing was further from the truth; every single movement, even the slightest twitch of a finger or blink of an eye, burns hotter than hell. However, she can't let her allies, or anyone else for that matter, know that. If they realize she's still practically on the brink of death, they won't let her go fight Pilate. And right now, that's the only thing that's driving her through all this pain.

"I don't know," Clay mutters, examining her with wary eyes. "Maybe you should rest a little."

She shakes her head. "But this doesn't even hurt!"

"Still, with injuries like the ones you had, I wouldn't push it. Did I ever tell you my mother was a doctor? She told me—"

Valentine laughs. "Of course she was, Golden Boy. What's next? Your father's actually the mayor?"

Hana giggles along too, but Clay doesn't seem to find it that funny. He frowns slightly and continues to talk.

"Anyway, she's a pediatrician, and she sees a lot of patients with broken bones. Especially kids like you. She says that rest is always the best medicine—"

Hana interrupts him. "I'd disagree. For me, training always cured any illnesses I had. Pushing through the pain only makes you stronger. And you said you're not even in any pain, right Val?"

She nods and ignores the pain pulsating through her neck. "Yep. I feel just great. The only thing that would make me feel better is sinking my claws into Pilate's demon flesh."

From the corner of the cornucopia, Hana smiles. "I bet his blood is black too. It would suit him."

Valentine grabs a sword out of the weapon pile, running her finger just above its blade.

"Well, there's only one way to find out, right?"

* * *

 _Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Male._

* * *

"How are you not cold?" Freyja asks as they sit under the tree he decided they'd camp out under for the night. She's curled up in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest for warmth. "It's probably like negative 5 degrees outside right now."

"I'm just not," he lies. "I have so much muscle I don't get cold anymore."

She rolls her eyes, then proceeds to rub her hands over her legs, trying to create friction and warmth. He watches her with amusement. As if that's going to make it better. He's spent enough nights on the street to know that once you're cold, you're probably staying that way until morning. There's nothing you can do about it, save for probably building a fire. And they're definitely not doing that.

"Why can't we build a fire again?" Freyja asks, almost on cue.

"Because I said so."

"That's not a reason," she growls.

"It is one enough for me, and since I don't see you doing anything about it, I think it's enough of a reason for you too."

Freyja growls again but doesn't do anything. She knows he's right. Ever since her little tantrum last night, she's done everything he's said. Carried all the bags. Walked when he told her to, and stopped where he wanted. Hunted for food while he sat back here and watched. While she may not admit it, they both know that right now, he has her tucked right under his thumb.

He loves the feeling of having someone previously so powerful, like a mayor's daughter, vulnerable to his every whim. It's a complete reversal from where he was a year ago, a weak, poor, homeless musician on the streets. Now he's the powerful one.

"Whatever," she mumbles in response. "I just think you're scared of the careers finding us. I think you're scared that Hana's better than you."

"She's not. No one is better than me. And I'm not scared of anything, especially not her."

"Hm. Okay. Keep telling yourself that, _music boy_."

He growls, digging his hands into the sand below his fingers. While he did have Freyja right in his palm of his hand, it didn't mean she wasn't annoying as hell while being there.

"Hey, how about you sing us a song? I bet you have some in your head there, deep under all that _muscle_. It can be about whatever you want, but I suggest one about how Hana's going to kill you. Or maybe Golden Boy. Oh, or even that One girl!"

His hands dig further into the sand, and he can hear it crunch below him.

"Valentine is dead. I killed her, remember?"

"Well I never heard her cannon," Freyja rebukes. "Or, now that I think about it, saw her face in the sky either. I hate to break it to you, but if you've ever watched the Hunger Games before, those are the two ways you can figure out if people are dead."

Punching his fist into the sand, he jolts to his feet with a hiss. "I've watched the Hunger Games before, alright? I wouldn't be here if I didn't. And I hate to break it to you, spoiled mayor's daughter, but in the real world there are not always people who sing for you when you snap your fingers."

And with that, he turns to leave. He doesn't exactly know where he's going, but it's certainly away from here.

However, before he has a chance to go, he hears a giggle from above him.

"What the _fuck_?"

Craning his neck back, he narrows his eyes up into the leafless tree above his head. There, even in the dark, he can see a small figure twitch up in the branches, maybe a good 20 feet above his head.

Freyja bursts out laughing.

"What in Panem's name is going on?" he hisses, his eyes raging bright. They dart between Freyja and the figure up in the tree. "Is that a mutt up there?"

No one responds, and Freyja keeps laughing.

"Freyja!" he snaps, flexing Valentine's cat claws at her. "Tell me now, or so help me I will rip out your eyes like I ripped out Valentine's!"

"Someone's rather vexed," the figure above him coos, and he instantly recognizes the voice. "Need some herbal tea?"

It's the girl from Ten who spat on him during training.

Oh, he's going to make her pay for that.

"I think he needs more than that. Maybe a tranquilizer," Freyja chuckles, watching as Pilate puts the cat-claws in his pocket and begins to scale the tree. As he does, the small girl moves further upward, her small and light body perfectly suited for the thin branches.

However, his isn't, and when he grabs onto one, it breaks and he falls to the ground, hissing.

Trying again, he quickly scales the larger branches, but when he reaches the smaller ones further up, they break again, and he falls back to the ground, even more, angry than before.

Kicking the tree in frustration, Freyja laughs louder.

"This isn't funny!" he howls, whipping around the face his laughing ally. "How long did you see that little rat up there?"

"A few hours," she giggles, smiling widely at him. "I'm surprised you _didn't_ see her. It was kind of obvious."

"Yes, without leaves, I was rather discernible up here," the Ten girl shouts down at them.

"Shut up!" he hisses up at her, then turns back toward Freyja. "And why didn't you tell me about it?"

"Because it was funny."

"Ugh, you're so infuriating! You know what? You're lighter than me. Go up and kill her instead."

"No."

"I could kill you for that," he growls. "I don't know what's Three's like, but in Two, it's called insubordination, and it's punishable by death. So since you thought it was so funny, you can go up and kill her, or I'll kill you."

"But you won't."

"And who says that?" he questions, cocking his head to the side.

"Me. You need me too much, and you and I both know it."

"No!" Pilate yelps, grabbing his claws out of his pack. "It's you who needs me. Without me, you're nothing. _Nothing._ You would have died with the rest of your alliance back in the bloodbath if it wasn't for me letting you in my alliance. I'm the only reason your alive right now. I saved your ass."

Freyja raises a brow. "Well, you need me just as much. I'm not a fool. I can see that you're using me. Making me carry all the stuff? I'm not blind. You're saving your strength for later when you have the fight the careers. In a three-to-one fight, you lose. But in a three-to-two fight, you might not. You need me around to fight them, so guess what? This isn't as one-sided of a relationship as you think. We're both playing a game here, okay? This isn't my first rodeo."

He blinks at her, growling. He knows she's right, but he'll never admit it. "Whatever. I guess she'll have to come down sometime, then."

* * *

 **A/N:** _As I promised, before the New Year!_ _Took a page out of the OG Hunger Games for this one, hope you all didn't mind._ _I might try to get another chapter out before break ends, though who knows. And we finally have another death. It's been a while! Next time I think we'll hear from Winnifred, Tyrell, Braxton/Gareth + others!_

 _ALSO, poll on my profile! I put it up a few days ago, and when checking today, I realized I forgot Manisha in it. Totally accidental, but very fitting. Gave me a good laugh._

 _19th: Lennox Orseni, District Nine Male, stabbed by Eliora._

 _Lennox! You were a sweet little boy. Believe it or not, I do plan things out, and I did have you originally going a little further, but I did change some things with the girls in your alliance last minute and everything just kind of played out from there. I screwed things up a bit from where I originally wanted them to go with you and I didn't really think it was super realistic to have you back where I originally wanted to end your arc, so here you are! Thanks to bobobear for him, he was fun to write, and I hope you're still happy with how he turned out. He died because nothing against him, but of the selfishness of the girls of his alliance. rip._

 _Alliances:_

 _Careers: Clay, Val, Hana_

 _Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja_

 _Sibs: Solomon, Luna_

 _Still Babysitting: Winnifred, Takei, Manisha_

 _Kind of Captive?: Gareth, Braxton_

 _Also Babysitting: Mortimer, North_

 _Loners: Tyrell, Terra, Eliora, Marguerite_

 _paper :)_


	33. Day III: Lie, Steal, and Cheat

_Day III: Steal, Lie, and Cheat_

* * *

 _Braxton Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

Their plan is simple. Get in. Get supplies. Get out. If everything goes to plan, no one gets hurt.

However, Gareth still doesn't seem to think so.

"Do I really have to be the bait?" he asks as they walk down the crumbling street, his hands twitching with nervousness.

Grunting in annoyance, Braxton turns toward his ally. "Yes. You told me you don't want to go near the cornucopia, and this way, you don't have to. It makes us all happy."

"But-"

"Would you rather do my job?" Braxton questions, his tone sharp.

"No," the boy responds, his head drooped.

"That's what I thought. See? I'm doing this to benefit _both_ of us. I listened to what you wanted, and I agreed to what your limits were. I'm a good ally and an even better person."

"But I didn't even want to do this in the first place," Gareth protests.

"Well, that wasn't an option."

Gareth doesn't respond, only looking down at his shuffling feet. Braxton glances over to him as he walks, and it looks like the boy is about to burst into tears. His skin is as white as snow, and he appears to be absolutely terrified. _Whatever._ Braxton doesn't feel sorry. If they do this right, Braxton will let him go at the end, and if he really wants, Gareth can hide in a hole for the rest of the games and avoid any and all conflict.

Within minutes, they're by the cornucopia. Braxton hunches down below the railing for cover and peaks his head above it to survey the scene. Gareth does the same but doesn't dare make the top of his head visible. Or any part of his body, that is.

Squinting his eyes, Braxton can see one body sitting outside the cornucopia, flashy sword in hand. It must be the boy from One whose name he can't remember. It's still the early morning, and he guesses the other two careers are still inside sleeping. Perfect. It'll mean their reaction times are slower since they'll be groggier.

Turning to Gareth, who is now shaking like crazy, he whispers for him to get into position.

"Please," the boy replies, his eyes wide. "I don't want to."

Braxton places a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but honestly, could care less what he wants and doesn't want to do. "It's alright. We'll be fine."

Gareth doesn't nod his head or even move. He just stares blankly up at Braxton, as if he's frozen in time.

Then, Braxton grips his shoulder tighter, which seems to wake him up out of his trance.

"Okay-okay!" his ally yelps frantically.

"Good. And remember, if you try to run away, I'll hunt you down and kill you myself," Braxton tells him with a smile.

Gareth nods quickly, then scampers into place. Once he's in his designated spot, Braxton looks over to the One boy, who still hasn't detected their presence. He flashes Gareth the signal to go, and for a minute, his ally doesn't move. Braxton shoos him forward, but the boy still doesn't budge. Then, he gets up and runs the opposite way he's supposed to.

Honestly, though, Braxton isn't that surprised. Springing to his feet, he starts after Gareth, adrenaline surging. It's time to live up to his promise.

Gareth is much slower than he is, especially with his still recovering wounds from when Braxton attacked him the previous night, and it doesn't take much time for Braxton to catch up to his former ally. When he does, he lunges forward and tackles the body of Gareth to the ground. When they hit the hard concrete, Gareth lets out a yelp of pain, and Braxton takes this moment to flip him over and pin him by his wrists.

The boy from Eight kicks frantically, screaming like his life depends on it. It does. Braxton smiles down at him and takes out his machete, and with one swift stroke of his hand, slices his neck open. The screaming instantly stops, and Gareth's head slumps backward, his limbs falling flat to the ground. His whole body goes limp and a cannon sounds a minute later, indicating that his heart must have stopped too.

"Wow," Braxton mutters, looking down at the dead body of his former ally with wide eyes. A part of him doesn't believe he just did that, but another part of him does, and the same part of him actually enjoyed it. Slicing Gareth's neck open actually felt completely natural, as if it's something he's been doing for his entire life. And he doesn't feel bad about it. He shouldn't feel bad about it. Gareth broke his part of the deal after all, which in Braxton's mind, was a completely reasonable deal. He's not a monster. He's just keeping his promise.

Though, his victory doesn't last for long, because a second later he hears footsteps behind him, and he turns around to see the muscular body of the boy from One sprinting toward him. However, when he's about ten feet away, the career stops dead in his tracks and puts up his hands as if to surrender.

Braxton glances at him in confusion, his eyes narrowed. Why wouldn't he take this chance to kill him? He practically had a free shot at him here on the ground. Still, Braxton's wary, and he points his machete at the career as if to say don't come any closer.

"I'm not here to fight," the boy from One mutters, placing his weapon on the ground slowly. He looks completely calm, and even smiles down at Braxton as he approaches.

Standing to his feet, Braxton still holds the machete tightly in his hand. Gareth's blood drips down from its blade, landing in a small pool on the ground.

"Then what are you here for?" Braxton asks, raising a brow.

"Put that thing down and I'll tell you."

"No."

"Don't trust the Golden Boy?" the career chuckles. "Come on! What do I have to hide?"

"Apparently something, because if you didn't, you would have woken up your allies," Braxton retorts, unamused.

The boy across from him twists his lips downward, his smile fading. "Fine then, keep your weapon pointed at me. Anyway, I was wondering if we could make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" Braxton questions.

"Something that will benefit the both of us."

"Vague, much?"

The One boy laughs. "I need to see if you're interested before I tell you more."

"I might be. I might not be."

"Well, you should be. If you do what I ask, you'll have your pick of the supplies from the cornucopia. That's why you came here, right? Had that boy be a distraction so you could sneak past me and steal what you need?"

"No," Braxton lies. "I saw him yelling and I did as any tribute who wants to win would and killed him."

The One boy raises a brow. "Sure," he replies sarcastically.

Frowning, Braxton continues to point his machete at the career. He doesn't trust this boy for a second. While Braxton knows he's one of the stronger tributes left alive, he couldn't take on the career by himself and win. It would have been a pretty easy fight for his opponent. Something must be really wrong if he's willing to strike a deal with Braxton and not take this chance to just kill him on the spot and get a threat out of the games.

When Braxton doesn't respond, the career takes a step closer. "So? You interested?"

"Mildly," Braxton replies nonchalantly, trying to act as cool as possible. This boy must be desperate if he's serious—he can't give away his upper hand.

"What else do you want, then?"

"Your protection. If I do this for you—whatever it is, I want you to promise that you won't attack me for the rest of the games."

"Done," the career blurts. "Now, your part of the deal. I need you to attack my allies."

Braxton's eyes widen, and he takes a step backward. "What? No. No way."

"It's not as hard as it sounds," the career responds. "They won't know it's coming. It'll be a surprise attack. Plus, if you didn't know this already, Valentine's already injured. She'll go down quick. Hana's a bit harder, but I'll be there too, and together I think the both of us can take her down."

Braxton bites his lip. This sounds a bit fishy. _Why wouldn't the career just kill them in their sleep now?_ Something was off. But he knows that if he wants to win, he needs to take risks. And if something goes wrong, he's probably one of the fastest tributes left in the games. He can high-tail it out of there faster than a rabbit. "Alright." He then juts his arm out to give the career a handshake.

The career across from his raises a brow in surprise as if he didn't think Braxton would actually agree. After a moment of hesitation, he takes his hand and shakes it tight, then smiles devilishly down at him.

"Looks like we have a deal," he chuckles.

Little did the career know that deals meant nothing to him.

* * *

 _Tyrell Taiko, 15._

 _District Six Male._

* * *

It's now or never.

He watches as both of the twins exit their hideout and slip out onto the crumbling street, canteens in hand. This is the first time they've both left the hideout unguarded, and now is probably the only time they'll leave it like this for a while. After watching them for a few days, he knew something like this would happen—they were drinking their limited supply of water a bit too quickly, taking gulps instead of sips. At that rate, he guessed their water would have been gone on day four, but apparently, he miscalculated. All for the better though, as it means he'll get his supplies sooner and won't have to run the risk of being caught lurking in the shadows by their camp any longer. After he gets what he needs, he's going to get as far away from here as possible.

It's been a bit weird watching the twins for the past few days. It's like he's a ghost. They're a part of his world but he isn't a part of their's, and honestly, it's creeping him out a little. It reminds him of when he first went deaf and he tried to remove himself from the lives of his family and friends, retracting into the shadows of his room. He watched them on the outside but didn't let anyone in. It's the same type of situation here, only just a little inverted and twisted. Like he's looking through a funhouse mirror at a part of himself he wanted to leave behind in District Six and in his past. Apparently, it's not quite gone though.

Exiting out of his hiding place, a pang of anxiety runs through his body. _What if he gets caught? What if they come back sooner than he thought they would?_ However, he doesn't let those thoughts cloud his mind for too long, and quickly pushes them away. If this is going to work, he needs to be decisive and take risks. No one has won sitting in a hole and waiting it out. Plus, he knows he'll regret it more if he never tries.

He makes a sprint for the crumbling house, but once inside, doesn't find the pile of supplies where he spotted them last. However, he doesn't panic. He didn't see the twins take much with them, so it has to be here. They probably just hid it while they were gone.

He knows the small stream is a five-minute walk away, and it will take a while to filter the somewhat green water, so he gives himself a short ten minutes to look. However, that doesn't mean he's going to leave the place a mess. His goal is to leave it just as he left it, so hopefully, the twins won't realize anything is gone until he's far away from here. First, he looks under the blanket strewn out across the floor. Nothing. He then makes his way over to the black ash of the fire pit, sifting through it with his hands. Again, nothing. Next, he looks in the bushes around the house. Zip. Finally, just as his self-allotted time of ten minutes is about to end, he spots a rather strange rock placed in the wall, jutting out at a weird angle. The color also doesn't match the lighter gray of the plastered walls. Scrambling over to it, he gives the rock a hard tug. It comes right out, and inside is the treasure he seeks.

Zipping open one of the bags, he spots two loaves of bread and a rope. He takes one of the loaves and the rope, leaving a bit left for the twins as a sort of thank you for letting him take their stuff. In the second bag, he takes everything, the flint, the packs of dried fruit, and the gas mask. He shutters a bit when he sees its presence, wondering again what type of horrible twist the gamemakers have in store. Whatever it is, with this, he'll hopefully be safe. He feels a bit bad for stealing it from the twins, but in this game, he has to think for himself. He'd rather himself be alive than Luna, despite how positive or of a good person she is. Good people don't win the Hunger Games. Bad people who steal, lie, and cheat often do.

As he's stuffing everything into the second bag, he notices his self-created time limit of ten minutes has been surpassed. Looking around, he thankfully doesn't see any movement. Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he heads out of the small archway he entered through, sighing in relief. He did it!

However, he spoke—or rather—thought too quickly, because standing right outside the doorway is Luna, her eyes wide with surprise. He knows Solomon can't be far a—

Suddenly, something hard slams against the side of his head, and everything around him instantly fades to black.

* * *

 _Winnifred "Freddie" Ellison, 16._

 _District Six Female._

* * *

They haven't had any action in a few days, and honestly, she's getting a little bit bored.

"I'm bored," she tells her two allies straight up because she's never really been the type of person to who doesn't announce to everyone exactly how she feels whenever she feels like it. "We should do something _exciting._ "

The short girl from Eleven kind of looks at her funny, blinking her eyes in a strange manner. Yet, she doesn't say anything about it, so Winnifred can't tell if she disagrees or not.

Takei, on the other hand, cocks his head to the side. "What do you mean, Freddie? We've been walking all day, and we finally got to the city, where you wanted to go. In my mind, that's pretty exciting. We accomplished our goal."

"Yeah," Winnifred mutters, rolling her eyes to the side. "But accomplishing a goal isn't exactly my version of _exciting_. If anything, it kind of sounds boring. I feel like I'm my parents accomplishing some goal at their work, like painting a car dark blue instead of light blue or changing fifty tires. Let's do something _extravagant_ , something that will make me feel like I'm _alive._ "

"I-I—l don't know if that's such a good idea," Takei replies rationally. Manida is still silent, sitting in her corner and brooding like usual. "We should probably rest up for now. We did a lot of walking, and with your wounds, I just want to make sure you're healing and not pushing it too hard."

"I'm perfectly _fine_ , okay? And what would life be if we didn't push it too hard? A snoozefest. You know what? I have an idea. Let's go tribute hunting. We'll get to have fun and take out some competition while we're at it! It's almost too perfect! I always come up with the best ideas."

Takei opens his mouth to protest, but Winnifred wraps her arm around his shoulder and speaks before he has a chance to do anything but awkwardly blush and stutter. "Look, Takei, I know you might be nervous, but after living in that commune-thing of yours for 17 years, I think it's time to live a little. I can help you do that."

"O-okay," he stutters, and Winnifred smiles and pulls him in for a hug. "We don't have weapons, except for Manisha's taser and my knife which I don't really know how to use, but I—I guess?"

"Great! You'll have so much fun, you'll forget all those years of your life were such a bore!"

He smiles weakly at her, still blushing, then nods his head silently.

She springs to her feet, walking out from the small alleyway where they had begun to make a camp for the night. She turns back, seeing Takei and Manirsa slowly rising to their feet behind her, moving so lethargically they almost looked like zombies rising from the dead. On the way out, she pats Mashina on the back.

"You're welcome, Manida, for making your life a little less boring too. Maybe you can learn from me how to relax a little. You always look so tense."

Her ally looks up at her with wide eyes. "Thanks?" she murmurs, a hint of nervousness and confusion to her voice.

Winnifred simply smiles, then runs ahead of Takei, peering down each of the alleyways as if there are tributes in each one. Finally, after walking for about five minutes, she finally sees a dark figure tearing through a dumpster, trash flying everywhere.

"Hey, guys, I found something!" she calls to her allies, who are a few feet behind her. They jog to catch up, and the three of them stand in the street, peering down the dark alley.

"Is that a dog?" Takei asks, narrowing his eyes.

"That doesn't look like a dog to me..." Manida mutters, her eyes widening as her voice trails off at the end.

Winnifred shrugs. "Maybe we should make it our alliance mascot."

With those words, the figure steps forward, and Winnifred can tell it's some kind of canine, though definitely not a dog. When it takes another step closer, she can see that two heads diverge from the body, and the figure stands on eight legs as if two dogs had been smashed together and turned into one unnatural, mutilated figure.

Suddenly, four more appear behind it, growling and snarling, their teeth shining white even in the waning light.

With that, the three of them go silent. The only sound Winnifred can hear is Manida's loud gulp behind her.

"I don't think they want to be our mascot," the short girl whispers, her body shaking. Her taser is positioned in her hand, gripped tightly against her palm.

"No shit, Manida," Winnifred hisses back, suddenly a bit more frightened than she was a moment ago. However, she's not going to let her allies see that she's scared.

"We can take them," she says a moment later, but when she looks back, her allies are already running like hell away, sprinting down the street. She looks back at the dogs, one of whom has sprung forward toward her, it's jaws wide open, ready to snap.

She punches it in one of its noses before its teeth can bite down on her flesh, and it falls to the ground, whimpering. The others, as if on command, fly forward, but by that point she's running too, her legs pumping faster than they ever have before.

"Manida! Takei! Wait up!"

They look back over their shoulders but don't stop running. She wonders if they'd just leave her to die here. However, she's fast, and after a time, she starts catching up to Manida, who seems to be a slow runner. Yet, the dogs are fast on their heels as well, gaining ground with every passing second.

"Manida, hand me your taser!" she demands, feeling one of the dogs narrowly miss snapping off her ankle.

The girl doesn't even look back, continuing to run.

"Manida, please! I'm closer! If I had a taser, I could protect us!"

She still doesn't look back.

Suddenly, she feels a pair of sharp teeth clench down on her leg. Yowling in pain, she whips back around to face the five mutant dogs. With her other leg, she kicks the dog that's gripping onto her leg off, but she notices that it opened up one of her wounds from two days ago, and a steady stream of blood is pouring out.

Another dog tries to lunge at her, leaping into the air. She narrowly dodges it as it misses her shoulder by less than an inch, but before she can recover, another dog is jumping toward her, its teeth digging into her arm.

She yowls again, and tries to flick it off, but finds that she doesn't have enough energy to do so.

Then suddenly, a knife sails toward the two-headed dog, hitting it right in one of its chests. It instantly lets go of her arm, and scampers away, whimpering. Whipping around, she sees Takei rushing toward her. He's now weaponless. Manida's with him too now, fishing something out of her bag.

Surfacing with a dried piece of meat, the skinny girl chucks it as far as she can. The dogs perk their heads up and rush after it, seeming to momentarily forget about Winnifred, Takei, and Manida.

"We need to go," Manida mutters. "It won't take them long to finish that, and once they're done with it, I'm guessing they'll be even hungrier."

The short girl slings her bag over her shoulder and continues to run, yet, Winnifred doesn't move. She watches with wide eyes as the dogs scamper toward the piece of meat, racing for that one little scrap. Before she has time to see them rip it apart, Takei grabs her arm and pulls her backward, away from the mutated beasts. Her world is beginning to spin. Most of her wounds have reopened up, and behind her, she leaves a steady trail of blood. Like Mashina predicted, it only takes the dogs a few seconds to tear the small piece of meat the shreds, and after, they start back toward the trio, racing over the trail of blood Winnifred left behind. They leave red footprints in their wake.

Suddenly, Takei skids to a stop in front of one of the shorter buildings

"Are you alright to climb?" Takei says, his face flashing with a look of concern.

She's really not—she feels like she's going to faint, but she nods yes anyway and begins to scale the building. It's tall, maybe three or four stories, and a fall from the top would surely kill her. If that didn't, the mutant dogs would anyway. However, she's not nervous. She's climbed things much taller than this back at home.

Takei leaps up and follows her, and behind him, Manisha struggles to even climb a few feet. However, she seems to learn quickly, and by the time they're halfway up, she's high enough so that the dogs can't bite at her feet when they jump.

Winnifred is beginning to get even dizzier, but she keeps climbing anyway, her pace getting faster and faster.

Takei yells something up to her, but her head is pounding so loudly she can't hear what he's saying.

Then, a second later, as she attempts to grab another crevasse in the wall, it gives out. Her hand slips and she losses her balance, falling backward. Vainly, she tries with her other arm to catch herself, but it's still weak from the wounds that she got when fighting the careers two days ago, and it's not enough to hold herself up. She slips again, and this time she lets out a curdling scream, falling down past Takei, who misses as she tries to reach out and grab her.

Everything's spinning around her as she descends. The dogs begin to bark excitedly beneath her, and a pit begins to form in her stomach.

She closes her eyes, bracing for impact.

But it doesn't come.

Blinking her eyes open, she realizes that she's no longer falling. Looking upward, she sees the stunned face of Manida, her hand extended and holding onto her own. She looks down at her with disbelief and shock, as if she can't believe she caught her. Winnifred can't believe it either. To her, Manida was forgettable, weak. She wasn't someone who would ever save someone as strong as Winnifred.

"T—thanks, Manida," she whispers, stunned almost wordless for one of the first times in her life.

Manida blinks down at her, and to her surprise, isn't smiling. Yet again, she can't really tell, because everything is still spinning. Blood drips down from her arms and legs, landing in the hungry jaws of the dogs. They bark louder.

"It's not Manida," the girl whispers harshly, looking her directly in the eyes. They burn bright with something Winnifred has never seen before, though how could she know what she's seeing is real? She might be hallucinating for all it's worth, and none of this could be happening. "It's Manisha. Man-ish-a."

Then a second later, she's falling again, and the distance between her body and Manisha's open hand is getting further and further.

By the time she reaches the ground, it seems like a world—a lifetime—away.

* * *

 _North Brier, 14._

 _District Twelve Female._

* * *

A cannon sounds, and she smiles up at Mortimer.

"Eight down, fourteen more to go!" she exclaims, kicking her legs back and forth as she sits on piles of bricks just outside the crumbling city. "What are our odds now?"

Mortimer scrunches up his nose as he thinks. It's a funny little quirk he has, and North smiles wider at him as she watches him.

"Um, I think we have a 63% chance now, or something like that?" he answers, though it sounds more like he's asking her a question that anything else.

"More like an 100%. You and I are going to the end, baby. Batman and Robin for the win! We're unstoppable! The District Nine tributes didn't even see it coming when he robbed them, and no one else will. Who's next? District Five? District Eleven? Or you know what, we could even take on the careers!"

She giggles, but Mortimer's face curls into a frown.

"What's wrong?" she asks him. "Are the careers too big of a step?"

He shakes his head. "No, it's not that."

"What is it then?"

"Nothing," he mutters, looking down at his shuffling feet. "It's nothing. I'm happy that we're in the final 16 together."

North narrows his eyes at him. "You're acting weird. It's obviously not nothing. Something's up."

"No."

"Yes! Come on Morty, you can tell me anything! I'm the best listener, you know I am."

He laughs, his face brightening up a little. "No, you're not. All you do is chatter. All the time."

She shakes her head, though knows he's right. "Come on, just tell me."

He hesitates before opening his mouth to speak. "What happens when we reach the finale? What are we going to do?"

"We're going to fight the other tributes," North replies immediately.

"But what happens if it's just you and me left?"

North opens her mouth to answer, but closes it tight before any words come out. Her immediate answer to this question is they'll fight each other, but she decides not to tell Mortimer that's what she'd do. While she does like him—she likes him a lot, more than she's liked almost anyone else before, her goal has always been the same: to survive. If it meant his survival or her own, she'd slit his throat in a second. No regrets. No one has gotten in her way before, and no one will. Mortimer won't be an exception. She'll cheat him to win, same as she's always done, and same as she always will.

So instead of telling him the truth, she just laughs. "How about we get there first, okay?"

He nods his head, and smiles back weakly at her.

"Alright."

"So, who is our next target?" North asks, changing the subject.

Mortimer scrunches his nose up again, thinking. "Hmm, maybe the District Five tributes? I think right now, they're the weakest. They probably won't put up much of a fight when we attack them."

"But where are they?"

Mortimer shrugs. "Probably hiding."

"Yeah. So maybe we should go after another alliance. How about the Elevens and Six girl? We saw them on the way to the city, remember? They must still be here somewhere."

Her ally nods his head. "Probably."

Grabbing their supplies, they set out again, ready to whittle that magic number down even lower and get one step closer to winning.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hey hey happy 2019! Hope you liked this chapter, and things are only going to get spicier from here! As you could see there were some cliffhangers, and some conflicts are going to come to a head in the near future! Get pumped. I certainly am.

Also, I'm going to leave it ambiguous if someone died, so no alliances or obituaries for today.

Have a nice new year,

paper :)


	34. Night III: Made to be Broken

_Night III: Meant to be Broken_

* * *

 _Luna Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Female._

* * *

"Solomon!" she screeches, a scream escaping from her lips as her brother smashes the brick into the side of Tyrell's head. It's probably the loudest sound that's ever come out of her mouth before.

The boy's frail body crumples to the ground, landing in a limp pile at the base of the house where they've camped for the past few nights. Her eyes widen as she spots a gash the size of her fist open up on the side of Tyrell's head, just above his ear. Red blood pools out, shimmering brightly in the light of the sinking sun.

Meanwhile, her brother stands over the deaf boy's body, brick gripped tightly in his hand. His skinny limbs shake from the adrenaline of it all, and his eyes are just about as wide as hers as he looks down at what he just did.

"Oh god," he mutters, and it looks like he's about to throw up. "I think I just killed him."

Luna shakes her head, ignoring him, then quickly rushes over to Tyrell's body.

"Luna, you shouldn't—" Solomon begins, but his voice quickly trails off as she kneels down to touch the blood oozing from his head.

Grabbing the blanket sticking out of the bag on his back, she quickly wraps it around the gash on his head in an attempt to clot the blood. She's glad that she and Sol went to the first aid stations during training. She hoped their time spent there would pay off, and it looks like it's going to. No cannon went off, so despite what Sol said, he's not dead yet. And if she can help it, he won't be.

"There goes our blanket," Solomon mutters as she finishes up. "Looks like we'll be cold for the rest of the night."

"We'll make a fire," she quickly replies. "It's worth being a little bit colder if he survives."

" _If_ ," Solomon repeats, raising a brow at her. "He's probably not going to. We don't have any real medicine or even a first-aid kit."

"We'll go find some medicine. There were plants back by the creek, maybe one of those we could us to hel—"

Solomon cuts her off. "He was stealing from us, Luna. He was going to take all of our stuff and leave us to die. We shouldn't be helping him."

"Of course we should," she murmurs in response. "He's my friend."

"No, he's not. You've had one conversation with him. At most, he's an acquaintance. _If_ even that."

She stands there silently, taking a deep breath in. She knows Tyrell has a good heart—she can just feel it, even if her brother can't. And he was probably just stealing out of necessity. They were getting pretty far into the games, and he was probably cold, hungry, thirsty, or all three. He wouldn't be outwardly malicious toward them. He just wouldn't.

"It doesn't matter," she replies. "We should help him whether we know him well or not. He's a person too, Solomon. He has feelings. A family at home who is worried sick, probably. Friends. Maybe even a girlfriend, who knows? Look, all I'm saying is that just because we're in the Hunger Games, we shouldn't let them change who we are. I know you're a good person, Sol. You and I both know what the right thing to do here is."

Her brother huffs. "I did the right thing by hitting him in the head and protecting you."

Luna takes another deep breath. "I don't need you to protect me all the time," she replies, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

Solomon's brow crunches. "So, I'm the one who did the wrong thing now?" he asks, his tone suddenly sour. "I guess I shouldn't have protected you, then. I guess I should have just let you die."

"No!" Luna exclaims. "I didn't mean it like that, you know I didn't."

"I know _exactly_ what you meant," he hisses back at her.

She takes a step backward, her eyes widening. She can tell Solomon is about to have one of his episodes, and if she doesn't do anything quick, it's going to spiral into something really bad.

Sliding toward him, she places a soft hand on his shoulder. He pulls away, growling.

"Don't touch me! I know you hate me! I know you wish I were gone so you can be in an alliance with that deaf boy without having to drag me around. I know all I am to you at this point is a burden. You know what? Maybe I'll just leave. Maybe I'll just die. It'll be better that way, for both of us."

"No, Sol, I love you. I'm glad we're in an alliance, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

"You're just saying that," he spits.

She shakes her head vehemently. "No, I'm not. You know I don't say things I don't mean. Here—uh—look. Just let me make sure Tyrell's okay, and then once he's in good enough health to walk, I'll tell him to leave, alright?"

Solomon crosses his arms over his shoulders. "Fine, but I don't think he's going to live through the night anyway."

* * *

 _Takei Sadeh, 17._

 _District Eleven Male._

* * *

He still can't believe Freddie is dead.

It feels like just a moment ago she was alive and laughing alongside him, pulling him along on her many adventures. She was the liveliest person he's ever met. And he hasn't met a lot of people—but still. He'd like to. And he can't imagine anyone being any livelier than Freddie.

That's why he liked her so much. She was the epitome of what he aspired to be: comfortable in his own skin, motivated, wild, and free. Ever since he realized that the world wasn't just his "little commune", as Freddie called it, he's realized that he wants to bring change to it. He wants to go home, and show other young boys like him that there's more to life outside of their community and that there are places where they can belong. With Freddie, he felt like he found his place. Without her, he feels lost.

He stares across the fire at Manisha, who has been silent almost all night. Tears stain her cheeks, and he knows she's probably mourning their dead ally to. _Who wouldn't be?_ Freddie was one of the best people he's ever met, and will probably ever meet.

Manisha mumbles something at him that he can't hear. Freddie never did that. Freddie was always so loud.

"What?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" she asks him, her voice a little louder but still barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

"What?" he asks again, confused. "Why do you ask that?"

She shrugs.

"I mean, you did lie to me during training about having gay parents too even though you lived in the normal part of Eleven. And you never said sorry for it."

Freddie would never have done that. Freddie would have told him the truth, always.

"Oh. I guess I'm sorry," she mumbles. "But do you think I'm a bad person for any other reasons?"

He narrows his eyes at her. "No."

"Are you sure? After what happened, do you not want to be my ally?"

He would rather be Freddie's ally, but he guessed Manisha was good enough. She'd keep him company, at the least.

"Why would I not want to be your ally?" he questions.

She shrugs again. "I don't know. I was just wondering if you saw anything."

"Saw what?"

"Anything when Winnifred died. Anything, well, that would give you a bad opinion of me."

"I'm trying to forget what I saw," he replies truthfully.

His allies' eyes widen, and she lets out a little squeak. She's probably thinking about it too.

"Look, Manisha, let's not think about that anymore. I'm trying to forget about watching her fall, and I think you should too. I'm trying to only remember the good things. Like her smile. Wasn't the little gap between her teeth so cute?"

She shrugs for about the 10th time tonight. "I guess."

"Well, it was. And her hair! She never brushed it but it still always looked so good!"

Manisha touches her own hair, which even in the cold of the night, is rather frizzy and wild. "Yeah, she did have nice hair. I wish I had hair like that. Do you think my hair is pretty too, Takei?"

"And her eyes!" Takei continues, too enveloped in thinking about his dead ally to hear what Manisha said. "They were some of the prettiest eyes I've ever seen. They reminded me of the hardy, rich, dirt back in Eleven. She would have loved it there, with all the trees to climb. She always said she was a good climber. Something abnormal must have happened if she fell off this one."

Manisha squeaks again. "I thought we weren't talking about that!"

He nods. "Yeah, I forgot. We're thinking of good things. Only the good things."

He wonders how long it's going to take to get over her. He's never really had a serious crush like this before, and he did like some girls back in Eleven, but he didn't think it was right to like them so he didn't get too invested. But ever since he met Freddie, it's been hard to get her out of his mind. He wonders if he ever will.

* * *

 _Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Male._

* * *

It's just about time.

He watches as the sun begins to sink below the dark horizon, setting the sky ablaze with brilliant colors. Sundown was when he told Braxton, the boy from Ten, to attack.

"Hey Valentine," he turns to his ally, grinning at her. "You want to spar? I think it would be a good idea for you to fight someone Pilate's size before we go out and find him tomorrow."

He's never seen her nod her head that fast. "Great idea, Clay! How about whoever wins the fight gets to pick what we're having for dinner tonight?"

Hana perks her head up upon hearing the word fight. "Hey, no fair! I want to be included too."

Valentine laughs. "Fine, Hana," she chuckles. "But the winner is still going to be me. You don't stand a chance, Clay."

He raises a brow in amusement. "Really? You don't think I can win against a half-blind girl who is still injured?"

She shakes her head, then points to her good eye. "I could beat you if I were blind in both eyes."

They both laugh—actually, all three of them, but Clay's chuckle is as fake as a lie. As they grab their weapons and head out into the space just in front of a cornucopia, a pit begins to form in his stomach. He's nervous. Rightfully so, as if this all works, he's going to be the only career left. And if it doesn't-well, it's going to work. Nicknames are nicknames for a reason. Everything in his life leading up to this point, save for his narcolepsy, has worked out just golden for him. He doesn't expect this to be any different.

A part of him wonders if there's another way. Valentine is a nice girl—he's known her for years, and all she wants to do is find the guy who killed her sister. She may be a little crazy, yes, but aren't they all? They signed up for a fight to the death with less than a five percent chance of winning. They all had to be a little crazy to do this.

Maybe he can just leave in the middle of the night. Maybe he can go with them to find Pilate and then jump sides. Maybe he can try to kill both the girls in his sleep. All those sound like better options than the crazy, farfetched plan he thought of this morning in desperation. He tries to think of what was going through his head when he made that deal with Braxton but doesn't really know. Craziness, that's for sure.

But it's a little late to start coming to his senses now, because before he knows it, he and Valentine are taking their positions, ready to spar.

"You're going down," she smiles at him, her eyes flashing with excitement. If she knew what was going to happen, she wouldn't be looking so happy.

He gulps and nods his head. He's beginning to feel even sicker. This isn't a good idea and he knows it. But he already talked to Braxton and—

Valentine sprints toward him, knife in hand. Her cat claws are still with Pilate and the both of them know there is no way she's getting them back unless she pries them from his cold, dead, hands.

As she charges toward him, he lifts his sword and blocks the blow from her knife. She spins around and tries to stab at him again, but he leaps out of the way just as her blade narrowly misses his thigh. Then, with a heave, he raises his sword above his head and slashes it down at her body, aiming right down the middle toward her head and chest. She lets out a yelp of surprise and arches herself away from him in order to avoid his sword. Her momentum causes her to fall backward and she does a backflip of sorts, pushing herself off her hands and landing on her feet. In the process, she lets go of her knife and it clamors to the ground.

Clay rushes toward her and before she has a chance to steady herself, swipes at her head again. She ducks back and falls to the ground, and Clay notices that he clipped her face. Another red scar goes across it, dripping red with blood.

It takes Valentine a minute to realize what just happened. Blinking her eyes, she looks up at Clay with a confused glance, parting her lips in surprise. His eyes widen to when he realizes what she must be thinking: that blow was intentional and was a direct attempt at trying to hurt her. The academy taught them never to aim at the face during a spar. It's one of the first rules they learn. Hana seems have learned it too, for she's stopped cheering and has gone silent, her sword gripped tightly in her hand.

 _Oh no._

All of a sudden, everything begins to spin, and he feels like he's going to puke. Hana approaches him slowly, her muscles tensed and wary, weapon gripped in hand. But he doesn't move. Everything is starting to spin around him, and he knows what's going to happen. He's going to faint, then his allies are going to kill him. It's the end of the line for him.

In his delirious state, he almost forgets the plan. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Braxton springs up and tries to tackle Hana. But the girl hears him from a mile away and whips around, kicking him right in the groin. The Ten boy yelps and staggers backward just as Hana slices at his shoulder blade, drawing a big, bloody gash.

"Clay, what are you doing?" he hears Braxton yell as the boy fends off Hana's sharp blade, blocking blows left and right with his machete. "Clay! Help me! Clay! What about the plan?" he screams, but eventually, they just fade into terrified muffles, and Clay feels a sense of exhaustion flood over him and his senses. He tries to run but finds that he can't move.

His limbs are beginning to sag, and black is beginning to protrude on the fringes of his eyesight. He turns his head to look down at Valentine. For a moment they lock eyes, and all he sees is blood, seeping from her eyes, her face, her hair. And then he blinks and the red has turned to black, reality blurring with nightmare, and it looks like darkness is overtaking her face, seeping from her eye sockets and lips. It twists upward and pulls at his legs, yanking him down into a dark abyss that has suddenly appeared below him, calling him down.

"Clay!" it screams, in a voice eerily similar to the Ten boy's sharp, desperate, shrill shrieks. "Clay!"

And a second later he's falling, the blackened abyss enveloping him until he can see nothing but darkness.

He's far from golden now. Far, far from it.

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

Like always, nothing has gone according to plan.

This was supposed to just be a fun little spar, an activity to tide them over until they left in search of Pilate tomorrow. None of them were supposed to get hurt. No boys yelling about a "plan" were supposed to jump out of nowhere and attack them. None of this was supposed to happen.

But it is. Maybe she should stop trying to guess how everything is supposed to go because so far, nothing has happened that way.

The District Ten boy she's hacking away at continues to scream for Clay to follow the "plan", whatever that means. _Does Clay have a secret alliance?_ Her instincts tell her no. Clay is the perfect guy—handsome, skilled, funny, and trustworthy. He wouldn't betray them. He couldn't. It wouldn't make sense if he did. Even after she saw him swipe at Valentine's face, a rather deliberate move that at the academy in Two would have gotten someone suspended for a week, she still believes that it was just an accident. Or maybe the rules were different in One and that's just how he was trained. Either way, she still can't fathom him turning against them. The boy from Ten is probably just desperate, nothing more. Or crazy. Sometimes tributes do go crazy, and from what she's seen from the Ten boy, she doesn't doubt he's gone off the rails.

Then suddenly, as she finally pins the Ten boy down, she hears a loud thud from behind her.

Whipping around, she sees the large, muscular body of Clay topple to the ground. He falls onto his knees and she watches as his head slumps forward, going limp. It lands in his lap and from a distance, he looks like a ragdoll in a child's room, sitting idly on a shelf.

"Clay!" she screams and takes one last swipe at the Ten boy before rushing to her ally's aid. Upon quick inspection, she doesn't see any wounds in his body. Valentine, now sitting up, looks equally as puzzled.

"W-what just happened to him?" she asks, her eyes wide.

Hana gets down on her knees and lifts up his head, holding it in her palms. She examines his face intently but finds nothing wrong. No wounds. His eyes are slumped shut as if he's asleep, and his lips are twisted slightly upward into a content grin.

"He-he's smiling? Is this some kind of joke?" Valentine questions, a low growl emitting from her throat. "If it is it's not funny. First, he tries to kill me. Now he tries to play some kind of practical joke? We should kill him now while he's down."

Hana shakes her head. "I don't think it's a joke. I think he fainted."

"Why is he smiling then? And how do you explain why he took a very deliberate swipe at my face? _T_ _wice?_ And the fact that the boy who attacked you was screaming about him not following a plan? Was he trying to betray us? "

"I don't know."

Valentine twists her head to take a quick glance at the District Ten boy. He's crawling away slowly, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

"Do you want me to finish that boy off?" she asks, cocking her head to the side.

Hana shakes her head. "No, he has enough wounds that he should die off on his own. And if not, he's not getting very far in that state. We'll kill him after we find out what happened to Clay."

She nods and looks back down at their ally.

"I still can't believe he tried to kill me. Really! Who does he think he is?"

"He must be sick," Hana concludes after examining him for another minute. "That's the only possible explanation of him doing all this."

" _Sick?_ " Valentine hisses. " _Sick?_ He tried to _kill_ me, Hana! I only have one eye and I could see that clearly!"

"He didn't try to kill you," she replies. "He just probably wasn't in control of his body. It had to be an accident."

"He tried to take a direct hit twice! Accidents don't happen _twice_!"

"They can," Hana replies confidently.

"You are blind, Hana! We can't trust him. We need to kill him now before he wakes up and tries to attack us again."

"No. We're not killing him. He didn't do anything wrong."

With that, Valentine growls. Hana ignores her and glances upward, noticing that the boy from Ten has crawled out of sight. She's not too worried. He couldn't have gone far. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Valentine reach for something in her pocket. Hana instantly knows what it is. Valentine whips around and tries to plunge the knife downward, right into Clay's chest, but Hana swings her leg around and kicks the knife out of Valentine's hand. It flies across the street and lands with a thud on the other side.

"Valentine, I said no!"

"Well I still don't trust him!" her ally exclaims in response. "It's better to be safe than sorry, and I certainly don't want him killing us in our sleep tonight. We still need to kill Pilate, and I'm not letting anything get in my way, especially not Clay."

Hana sighs. Valentine does have a point, but she still thinks she's right. Clay isn't a bad person and she knows it. He wouldn't turn on them. "Well, don't know anything for sure yet. When he wakes up, we'll ask him and find out for sure."

Valentine mumbles something under her breath.

"What was that?" Hana questions.

"I said _fine_ ," Valentine hisses aggressively. "We'll wait. But I know that's I'm going to be right."

Hana decides that's enough of an answer. The two girls wait for a moment or so, and then finally, Clay's eyes flicker open.

Valentine doesn't even give him a chance to settle back before bombarding him with questions. "What just happened? Why did you try to kill me? Why did that boy say you weren't following the plan? Who is that boy? Did you have a secret alliance with him? Were you planning to turn—"

"Valentine," Hana murmurs calmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Give him a minute."

Clay groans and sits up, rubbing his head. "What just happened?" he asks groggily as if he had just woken up from a nap.

"A lot of things," Valentine hisses before Hana has a chance to tell him, "you have a lot of explaining to do, Golden Boy."

Suddenly, Clay's eyes go wide with fear. Valentine raises a brow at Hana as if to say _I told you so_ , but Hana isn't too concerned. He probably just remembered what happened was all. He's not guilty until they prove him so.

"Explaining?" their ally gawks.

Hana nods her head. "Yeah, just tell us what happened, and no one will get hurt."

"Where's Braxton?" Clay asks, ignoring Hana's remark.

"Oh, so you do know him!" Valentine exclaims, giving Hana another _I told you so_ face. Hana just frowns back at her.

"He's dying," Hana replies, "and why do you ask?"

Clay pauses for a moment before responding. "He-he, this morning, when you were both sleeping, he came up to me with a deal. He—"

"Why didn't you kill him on the spot?" Valentine questions. "He's a threat. You should have woken us up so we could have helped you kill him."

She nods. Valentine did have a point there.

"I wanted to see what it was. The—the deal I mean. I wanted to see if we could recruit him to help us kill Pilate. He asked for supplies, so I said I'd give some to him if he agreed to join us and unite to fight Pilate. He would follow us at a distance, then when we found Pilate he'd join in and help. He said alright, and I told him to come back for supplies this afternoon. But I totally forgot, and so I guess he was mad that I didn't hold up my part of the plan."

Hana smiles, satisfied. That made sense. However, Valentine doesn't seem to think so.

"Why didn't you tell us about it then?"

"I didn't know if you'd be okay with help from outside. I know that you're one of those girls who like to do it yourself and not ask for help—"

"I would have been fine with it. The more the better. As long as I'm the one who gets the killing blow."

"Oh," Clay mutters, "Well, I didn't know that."

Valentine rolls her eyes and stands to her feet. "I've said it about 10 times already. Boys just don't listen, am I right?"

Clay laughs nervously. "I guess not."

Hana laughs as well. "And that's why I date girls. But Clay, what about the fainting?"

His eyes widen again, and he gulps.

"I-well—I—I—"

"Were you feeling sick this morning?" Hana asks.

He nods his head rapidly. "Yep. Been feeling faint all day."

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"I didn't want you guys to think I was weak," he mutters, then turns to Valentine, "You're both just so strong and have so many skills, I have to admit, sometimes I guess I feel a little inferior."

Valentine raises a brow, and Hana wonders if she thinks he's lying. But then she stands and opens her mouth to speak, "Fine, I guess I believe you. But that doesn't mean you're totally off the hook, Clay. I got my eyes—or rather, eye on you."

She stalks away, and Hana extends a hand to help Clay up. He takes it and sighs a massive sigh of relief.

"Is she alright?" he asks.

Hana shrugs. "I think she's just a bit shaken up still is all. You do have to remember, she did almost die three days ago."

"Yeah, I almost forget about that."

"But if it's worth anything, I never thought you were lying Clay. I mean, why would you? You're the Golden Boy after all. You don't have anything to lie about. You're literally perfect."

* * *

 **A/N** : Okay, so I hope this chapter clears some things up! And I updated pretty fast! I guess I'm just excited to write more. The chapters are only going to keep getting more and more intense, trust me. Next time we should hear from Terra and Marguerite/Freyja/Pilate, since we haven't heard from them in a while, then something big's going to happen! I'll let you guess. There's been a few hints in there.

What time is it? Eulogy time!

18th: Gareth Emory, District Eight Male, throat slit by Braxton.

We all knew this one happened. But really, how long would Gareth have survived for? He refused to go near weapons and wanted to hide for the whole games. I think it was his time. Plus, it moved some other people along plotwise. Still, it was fun! Gareth was certainly a unique character, and was super fun to write. Thanks david13241 for subbing him to me!

17th: Winnifred Ellison, District Six Female, fell from building.

Also, I'm kind of surprised some of you thought she'd survive. Yes, she was a big character, but how? She would have fallen like a good 30 feet and then would have been torn apart by dogs before her allies could get to her. Anyway, I loved this girl and she brought so much spunk to the story. I had the whole Manisha standing up for herself scene planned for a while, and I think it was the perfect end to her arc. Not everyone gets redemption, especially not in the Hunger Games. But I still loved her. Maybe if Raleigh hadn't won last year and she wasn't so similiar to him she could have had a better chance. Still, I think she made a giant impact on the story and thank you so much for her irdecenteverdeen!

Alliances:

Careers: Clay, Val, Hana

Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja

Twins: Sol, Luna

Sad: Takei, Manisha

Happy (but for how long is this question): Mortimer, North

Loners: Tyrell, Terra, Eliora, Braxton, Marguerite

That's all for today! See everyone on day 4!

paper :)


	35. Day IV: Fall into the Abyss

_Day IV: Fall into the Abyss_

* * *

 _Terra McIntosh, 18._

 _District Seven Female._

* * *

Sometimes in life, there are just things that can't be explained.

One of these things is that Eliora, even after all they've been through, is still following her as she walks through the desolate arena. She has no idea why. The two of them hate each other more than anything else in the world. Their last interaction ended in a fight full of hair-pulling and angry punching, both of them receiving their fair share of bruises and cuts. After scrambling around for upwards of an hour, they finally decided to agree to a truce and end it. But Terra didn't think the truce included Eliora following her for days on end.

Looking back over her shoulder, Terra winces as she sees that the redheaded girl is still trailing behind her, sluggishly keeping pace.

"Will you stop it?" Terra yells over her shoulder, not really caring at this point whether or not anyone else hears. In all honesty, she's kind of lost her will to go on. She knows the end is nearing for her—the numbers are whittling down, and she's no optimistic about her chances against the careers, Pilate, or even a stronger outlier like the boy from Ten. Plus, losing Lennox has left her kind of down. He was like a son to her for the short time she knew him, and because she left him with the irresponsible Eliora, he died. If she had been there things could have been different. Eliora wouldn't have fallen asleep and—

She stops herself. _This is the new Terra, remember?_ No more regrets. No more blame. No more looking in the past. She's looking forward and only forward, toward the future. And if Daffodil keeps her promise, she's going to have a hell of a future to look forward too. But honestly, she's feeling a little bit down about that too. Back during training, her mentor promised that she'd send her a sign by the third day in the arena if the plan was still happening. But no sign has come, leading her to believe that either Daffodil got cold feet, or even worse, she was caught. And that means that Terra's probably going to die here. Alone. Or with Eliora, but that makes her feel even worse.

Suddenly, she comes up upon a giant crack in the ground. She's so deep in thought she almost doesn't notice it. She quickly stops herself with a squeak of surprise. Her eyes widen as she looks down, then outward at the black expanse. It seems to stretch on forever downward, toward the center of the earth.

Looking out, she notices that the cracked, brittle, dry ground seems to end suddenly too. A black abyss is all that stands before her, stretching on until it reaches the horizon. What she's standing at is the edge of the arena, but at this point, it feels like she might as well be standing at the end of the earth. Suddenly, she feels a pang of loneliness crash over her like a wave hitting the sand on a beach, and she steps backward, away from the edge.

The feeling is quickly gone though as she hears Eliora's annoying, high pitched voice squeak behind her.

"Congrats on finding a dead end, genius."

Whipping around, Terra squints her eyes at the redheaded girl. "Really? You follow me all this way just to make fun of me?"

"Yeah," the girl replies simply, giving Terra a sly smile. "It was worth it."

She rolls her eyes, growling. "Ugh. You're so infuriating."

"I try."

"Since when did you get so sassy?" Terra retorts.

Eliora purses her lips. "Since you killed Lennox."

"I did not—"

Terra decides not to finish her sentence. Instead, she just lets her mouth hang open, her tongue hanging motionlessly between her chapped lips.

"That's what I thought," Eliora mutters smugly in response.

She doesn't bother to answer her former ally's jeer. Maybe she's just exhausted. Or maybe she's just done stooping to that low level. Either way, she finds herself taking a seat on the ground. She then stares silently out into the abyss, ignoring Eliora and in turn, letting her thoughts drift into nothingness.

Eliora surprises her by taking a seat on the ground too, right next to her. Terra honestly thought that the girl from Nine would have taken this moment to push her right off the edge. After all that they've been through, that would have been the logical thing to do. But she doesn't. Instead, she leans herself back on her hands and stares out into the sea of blackness too, and for a moment, Terra decides that Eliora might not be as bad as she thought.

"It's kind of pretty if you squint your eyes," Eliora remarks.

Terra makes her eyes into small slits, causing the blackness of the abyss and the green on the sky to blur together into what looks somewhat like an abstract painting.

"Yeah," she agrees, "it kind of is."

"I wonder what's down there," Eliora murmurs, tilting her head in such a way so her chin now rests upon her neck.

"Nothing good, probably."

"Probably."

They're silent again for a while.

"You know," Eliora mutters quietly after some time, "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

Terra blinks her eyes, confused. _Did Eliora just... apologize to her?_

"Yeah," Terra mutters. "I think we did."

 _And did she just... accept the apology?_

Like she said, some things in life can't be explained.

"I mean, I don't really ever get off on a good foot with anyone," Eliora continues.

" _Really?_ " Terra questions sarcastically. "I couldn't have guessed."

Eliora laughs. It's kind of awkward and forced, but it's still a laugh nonetheless, so Terra takes it as a peace offering of sorts. "I'm kind of a shitty person," Eliora continues. "I don't have a lot of friends back home."

"Me neither," Terra blurts, surprising herself. She thought Eliora would be the last person she'd be opening up to right now. But here they are, sitting at what feels like the edge of the universe, having an intimate chat like they've been friends for years. And Terra actually doesn't hate it.

"I'm a bit, well, abrasive," Eliora continues, "I'm not the friendliest person. And when I finally meet someone who doesn't hate me immediately, well—let's just say things usually go south quickly. Like they did with well, you know who. I won't say his name. I cling too hard, too fast."

"At least you didn't kill your son," Terra mutters, not realizing what's coming out of her mouth until it's too late. She quickly moves to cover her lips, but the words are already out and they sting as much as she remembered they do.

"You _killed_ your son?" Eliora questions, her eyes widening into doe-like circles.

"I thought we were having a no judgment talk," Terra quips, narrowing her eyes at the redheaded girl.

Eliora nods her head slowly. "Yeah, we were. It's just, well—that's kind of a big bomb to drop."

"It was an accident if that makes it any better."

"Only a little bit."

"I was mad, angry, and irritated. My boyfriend just left me and I didn't know where to channel my anger to. The next thing I knew he was crying, and I was so annoyed and I needed silence so I just-"

"You just what?" Eliora asks, leaning in curiously.

"I threw him out the window. I didn't mean to. It just happened. I—"

"Wait, let me get this right. You threw a baby out a window?"

Terra gulps, smiling ashamedly. "Yes."

Eliora bursts out laughing, and Terra doesn't quite know why, but she finds herself nervously laughing along as well.

"Well, that makes me feel better about my shitty life," Eliora mutters. "I may be crazy and everyone I know may hate me, but I didn't throw my son out the window! Phew!"

She laughs again.

Terra blushes, embarrassed, but soon begins chuckling with Eliora too. She can't believe she just told her biggest, darkest secret to her sworn enemy, and now they're _laughing_ about it like old friends. Eliora is the last person on earth who she ever would have thought she'd be here with. Eliora is the last person who she thought would have understood. But here they are, standing at what feels like the edge of the world, reconciling.

She gave herself a second chance after what she did to her son. Maybe Eliora deserves one too.

* * *

 _Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District One Female._

* * *

The three of them stand at the edge of the cornucopia, watching as the pile of supplies inside burn to blackened dust.

Hana smiles as she watches the blaze. It was her idea, after all, to burn the supplies inside. In past games, after the careers have left to go hunting, tributes usually come and steel supplies that they otherwise wouldn't have had access to. By burning everything that they can't carry with them, the careers are making their job easier. They have what they need. No one else needs to have what they need too.

"Alright," Valentine murmurs after the blaze has begun to die down. She's getting a bit impatient, having waited for three more days then she expected to before setting out to kill Pilate. "Should we go?"

Clay looks a bit hesitant, but Hana nods her head quickly, and that's all the encouragement Valentine needs to get going. She heaves the bag onto her back and spins around, heading in the direction where they last saw the former career run off in. They have no idea where he is, so they're just going to walk until they find some clues. Hana jogs to catch up with her fast pace, while Clay lags slowly behind.

"I'm so excited," her ally squeals. "Finally we're going to get some real action!"

Valentine nods. "And some real revenge."

"That too," Hana chatters in a bubbly, peppy tone. "I can't wait to dig my sword through his soft, sticky flesh. Don't you love that moment when your weapon first enters your opponent's body and draws blood? Oh, that's just my favorite! I can picture it now. The warm, moist, sticky—"

Valentine nods her head at her ally, but in all honesty, has stopped listening. While she loves getting her revenge as much as the next person, Hana's a bit—well, too gory for her tastes. It's a little sickening that thinking about hurting someone makes her this eager and enthusiastic, but hey, whatever floats her boat.

They walk for a while like this, Hana chirping on and on about how amazing it feels to kill someone while Valentine listens and Clay still drags behind. Every so often, she looks back to make sure he's there. After what happened last night, she doesn't trust him one bit and half-expects him to pull out a sword and stab her right in the back. But he doesn't, so for now, Valentine will give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Hey, guys!" Clay shouts up to them after some time. "I think I found something!"

She and Hana both whip around quickly, their eyes widening when they see footprints in the blackened dirt. They're large, about the size of what Valentine imagines Pilate's feet to be, and lead off toward a crumbling town in the distance.

Hana grins. "Nice job Clay!"

Valentine nods in approval. "Yeah, good—"

Suddenly, a giant gust of wind sweeps toward them, blowing Valentine's dark hair back. She stops talking, her senses all of a sudden heightened. Somethings going to happen. Turning toward the gust, she squints her eyes and blinks in the direction of the wind, suddenly seeing a giant, dark cloud fast approaching. It sweeps over the land toward them, enveloping everything in its black, murky fog.

Hana squeaks, her pretty brown eyes widening.

"What is th—" Valentine goes to ask, but she's cut off by Clay's loud yell.

"Just run!" Clay screams, and when Valentine turns around she realizes her ally is already almost a hundred feet in front of them. She sprints after him, not daring to look over her shoulder at whatever that _thing_ is.

However, after about a minute or so she finds herself slowly falling behind. Her legs burn, and her head is throbbing harder than it ever has before. She knows she's not in a good enough shape to be doing this, but right now, it doesn't matter. The only thing propelling her forward is sheer adrenaline, her heart racing as fast as a galloping horse.

"Valentine, come on! Push it!" Hana yells as she sprints past her, but Valentine can't go any faster and finds herself falling further and further behind.

A minute later the black cloud sweeps over her, enveloping her in darkness. She takes one last look at Hana and Clay before they disappear forever, two small figures racing against time. It'll only be a short while before they're swallowed up too.

The wind whips around her, choking her as it swirls round and round. She finds herself coughing deeply, gasping for air, but her lungs don't absorb anything but the black gas. It feels like she's drowning in an ocean of darkness, falling deeper and deeper into the abyss. Her lungs keep filling up with whatever poison is in the air and her insides begin to burn.

Collapsing onto the ground, she continues to cough. By now, she's beginning to grow sleepy from the absence of oxygen. She can't see anything anyway, so the moment where she loses consciousness is unclear and fuzzy, a guess at best. But it happens, and the rest doesn't really matter, does it?

* * *

 _Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Ten Female._

* * *

It's day three of being trapped up in the tree, and if they think she's coming down any time soon, they're sorely mistaken.

Pilate is bored, she can tell. He makes marks on the tree with his sword every so often, and when she yells down and asks him what they are, he replies that he's drawing what her body is going to look like once he's sliced her to pieces. It doesn't scare her though. Marguerite can tell he's insecure by the way he orders his ally around and talks down to her. He's trying to make himself seem like he's more powerful and in control of her even if he's not. And he's trying to intimate Marguerite too and make it seem like there's no way out rather than death. She knows better than that though. The games are unpredictable, and there will be plenty of chances for her to escape. They just haven't come yet.

"Pilate," Freyja whines, which Marguerite notices she does often. "Can we _please_ go? It's evident she's not going anywhere."

Pilate hisses at his ally. "That's what she wants you to think, dummy. She's been up there for three days without any food or water. She's going to break soon."

Freyja growls in annoyance and rolls her eyes. "Don't call me a dummy."

"I'll call you whatever I want to call you."

"Whatever," Freyja mutters. "But I really think you're the dummy in this situation. We missed out on so many other people that we could have killed by waiting here for her to come down. Plus, she's twelve. I mean, she doesn't have any chance anyway. Why do you want to kill her so badly? Some mutt will probably kill her anyway."

"She spat on me during training. It's payback."

"Now you're sounding like Valentine," Freyja chuckles, then proceeds to wail and imitate the girl from One. "Revenge! Oh, sweet, sweet revenge! Everything needs to be equal! Equality for all!"

"I do not sound like that weak, little, ignorant, naive girl," Pilate spits. "We are nothing alike."

Marguerite chuckles from her perch up in the tree. For once, Pilate's right. They're not alike at all.

Pilate lurches his gaze upward, glaring at Marguerite. "Would you stop laughing?" Pilate hisses.

"I can't help myself," Marguerite giggles, "you two are so humorous. You're like imbecile children bickering over a toy."

"I do have to admit," Freyja mutters, "she does have a good vocabulary. Better than yours, Pilate. All you do is drop f-bombs and swear."

He growls at her, then they're back at it, fighting like silly little children. They're too busy to notice the black cloud emerging from the west, sweeping over the land like a blanket of darkness. She instantly recognizes what it is: gas. When she was young, her mother described it to her. It was what the Capitol used on the rebels, including her mother, during the rebellion to subdue them. It's a poisonous substance that if inhaled, causes one to pass out. It also stings. A lot. The name of the chemical is escaping her now, but she knows it's not deadly. The Capitol wouldn't kill them that fast. They want a show after all. She guesses the gas is just to spice up the games a little, add some drama into the mix.

Freyja's the first of the pair to notice the approaching storm. When she spots it, her eyes widen suddenly and she lets out a short squeak of surprise.

"Pilate," she mutters quietly, almost too soft to hear.

"What?" he barks at her, obviously annoyed. "What is it?"

She just points at the cloud wordlessly.

Pilate swivels around, his eyes widening when he sees the cloud too. However, he quickly suppresses his reaction. Marguerite notices this. He's probably trying to make himself look like he's not scared, even if he is.

"We should run," Freyja squeaks. "Like, now."

Pilate shakes his head. "We're not leaving her."

"What?" Freyja gawks, turning toward him. "That thing looks like it's going swallow us whole, and you're concerned about her?"

Pilate nods. "Yes. Whatever that is, it's not deadly, I know it. It's probably just what they did on the first day with the sand. You know, when you killed your district partner and I had to come save your ass?"

She growls at him. Marguerite finds it funny that every time they talk, they always end up fighting. Even at a time like this when they should be taking action. They're simply wasting precious time.

"I thought we weren't going to mention him," she hisses at Pilate. "You promised."

"Promises mean nothing to me."

She grunts in frustration. "You're an idiot."

"Well you're listening to me, are you not? I don't see you running. If I'm an idiot, you're an even bigger one."

She growls at him again, but this time doesn't interject. The cloud grows closer.

Pilate looks up at her, grinning widely.

"You better not think about trying to use this as an escape. I've trained with a blindfold. I don't need to be able to see to kill you."

And then a second later, the cloud swallows them whole, enveloping them in a blanket of black.

She holds her breath and starts down the tree, feeling out each branch with her feet as she steps downward. She can sense Pilate standing below her, sword ready to slash at her flesh when she's close enough. She needs to be careful about this.

Meanwhile, she can hear Freyja cough violently. Pilate's started to cough too, which is a good sign because it means while he knows the gas won't kill him, he doesn't know that he can't inhale it. She's got the edge here.

She waits 30 seconds, then leaps from the tree and onto the ground. She can feel Pilate's sword slash at her back, drawing blood. She doesn't let herself yelp or inhale the air, and sprints forward. Pilate's fast on her trail though, and she can sense where he is from his loud coughs. He slashes at her again and narrowly misses her shoulder, nicking the skin but not cutting through.

She's starting to get lightheaded, but she can't stop running. She knows she can't. She runs through the pain and discomfort. A minute later she hears Pilate's coughs stop and she knows he has probably passed out. Freyja's stopped a long time ago. Yet, she keeps running, toward the black abyss that lays ahead of her.

She can't stop.

She won't stop.

She's stronger than they all think she is, and she's going to show them.

She's going to show them all.

* * *

 _Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Male._

* * *

North narrows her eyes as she watches the black birds all jump off a building at once, forming a giant black swarm in the air as they soar away.

"Something is wrong," she mutters, looking around warily.

"What do you mean?" he asks, tilting his head in confusion at her.

"Something is coming. Something bad."

Mortimer snorts. "North, this is the Hunger Games. Of course, something bad is coming."

She shakes her head. "No. I mean something _really_ bad is going to come."

Then they see it, a giant black cloud on the horizon. It's dark and swirling and menacing, hurtling toward them faster than a steam train.

Oh. That _is_ bad.

Neither one of them speaks, but they don't have to. There's a mutual understanding between them that doesn't need words: run. They both grab their stuff and break into a sprint, racing down the crumbling streets of the city. They weave in between large, looming buildings that all look like they're going to collapse any minute now, and whatever that ominous cloud was is going to be the thing that tips them over.

"We need to get out of here!" he yells to her. "The buildings are going to come down and bury us!"

She screams back. "Yeah, I can see that!"

They turn down an alley that leads out of the city. However, the street is very bumpy and North trips over a raised piece of concrete. She yelps as she falls, scraping her knees on the hard concrete.

"MORTY!" she screeches desperately, "MORTY, HELP!"

He instantly whips around, not even thinking twice. He thought his brain would have screamed for him to get out of there, to save himself, but instead is screaming for him to help his ally, to save her. His older brother instinct has kicked in, and he hates himself for it, but there's nothing he can do.

Rushing to her aid, he helps her to her feet.

"Are you alright?" he questions frantically, searching her over.

"I-I think I twisted my ankle."

"I'll carry you then," he suggests.

She shakes her head. "No, you can't. You're smaller than me, and I doubt you can support the weight of me on your back, let alone run with me."

"I'll try."

North shakes her head again, then turns toward the quickly approaching cloud. Sniffing the air, she scrunches her nose in disgust. She then looks upward, at the shaking buildings, then she whips back around to face him.

"Hold your breath," she instructs, looking him dead in the eyes. "And don't move."

He narrows his eyes at her in confusion. _Shouldn't they be trying to get out of here? And why should he hold his breath?_

He opens his mouth to ask her, but then the cloud sweeps over him, obstructing his vision. He can't see even an inch in front of him. Wind whips around him, sending his hair into a fit. However, he does as North said, holding his breath and not daring to move.

Meanwhile, North grips his hand tightly, squeezing it harder than he thought possible.

The buildings squeak around him, shifting with the wind. He expects any minute now for them to fall and bury them under a thick layer of rubble, but they don't. They stay right where they are, cemented into the ground.

He doesn't know how long they stand like that, paralyzed with fear, but it feels like an eternity. However, he knows it's only minutes, maybe even seconds, because he's able to hold his breath for the entire time.

Then suddenly, he's able to see again. The black fog is gone, disappearing in the opposite direction as fast as it came. North stands in front of him, gasping for air.

"How-how—did—you—know—that—would—work?" he asks in between his own gasps.

North shrugs. "I didn't."

"But-the—part—about—holding—your—breath?"

"I knew the smell. It's a gas that is poisonous. It makes your lungs burn and usually makes you pass out."

"How do you know that?" Mortimer questions.

"Don't ask," North mutters.

"And how did you know the buildings wouldn't collapse on us?"

North shrugs. "I just hoped they wouldn't."

Mortimer shakes his head in disbelief. "You are one of the luckiest people alive, North. I swear."

* * *

 **A/N:** _Another day, another disaster! Hope everyone liked this chapter, and for the people we didn't see, we'll catch up with them next time and see how they're doing and what happened to them._

 _Anyway, the poll on my profile is still up. Go vote, and this time, I'm telling you, it might make a difference. Unlike Crimson, I actually have no idea who is going to win this thing. I have a few people in mind, but at this point, it's really anyone's game. Except for a few people, whose deaths I've had planned for a while. I'd say there's 6-7 people still left who I'm seriously considering for victor, and I really didn't think that'd be the case this late! Kudos to you guys for making awesome tributes!_

 _Alliances:_

 _Careers: Clay, Val, Hana_

 _Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja_

 _Twins: Sol, Luna_

 _Enemies turned, kind of friends? Huh?: Terra, Eliora_

 _D11: Takei, Manisha_

 _D12: Mortimer, North_

 _Loners: Tyrell, Marguerite, Braxton_

 _See you for night 4!_

 _paper :)_


	36. Night IV: Not Worth It

_Night IV: Not Worth It_

* * *

 _Braxton Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

He was smart enough to know that the black cloud was gas and that he needed to hold his breath as not to inhale the toxic substances. He's lived long enough to remember the rebellion—or at least, to hear stories about it. Stories about the war, about the gas, about what the Capitol did to their own citizens.

Valentine here, well, she wasn't so smart. She was probably sheltered from the harsh truths of the war in One, hidden behind glittering mansion walls. She wouldn't know about the gas. _How could she?_

He looks down at her limp body, his lips twisting into a sick, twisted grin. She's still knocked out from the gas, and lays unconscious on the ground, face down in the sand. Holding his machete in his hand, he runs the blade along her back, lightly enough not to cut the skin, but to just leave a small red mark. He wants to dig it into her flesh so badly, to feel that power, but stops himself. _He's merciful and kind, remember?_ He killed Coral because he knows that someone would have killed her anyway (They would have made it hurt more, too. He gave her a quick, painless death because he's nice.) and he killed Gareth because he didn't follow up with the extremely fair terms of the deal. He's not a monster. He won't kill Valentine, who right now in this state, is nothing more than a defenseless child. Plus, he has a better idea anyway. One that will show that he is merciful and will get his revenge at the same time.

Craning his head upward, he glances around the desolate scene. Her allies are nowhere to be found. He guesses they got split up when the cloud swept over them. No matter. If he can't find them now, he'll make them come to him.

Grabbing Valentine's limp body, he swings her over his shoulder. She's much lighter than he expected, and it doesn't take much to heave her off the ground. Once her body is slung over his, he begins to trudge back to the cornucopia.

He arrives at a cloud of black ash that whips harshly at his face in the cold night wind. Coughing, he shuts his eyes until the wind ceases. When he opens them, he spots a pile of black dust at the base of the cornucopia, almost as tall as himself. The ground around the pile is singed. Peering inside the golden dome, he doesn't see any supplies. He comes to the logical conclusion that the careers must have burnt it all so that no one would come steal it as they had in past years.

It's only a minor setback though because once they come for Valentine, he'll be ready to kill them and take what they have left.

He flops Valentine's body onto the ground, and she hits the earth with a hard thud. He'd imagine the fall would have bruised a few of her bones, but at this point, he guesses the girl is already in so much pain from all her wounds that a few more bruises won't make a difference. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a long cord of rope. He then wraps it around her body and ties her to one of the metal posts that stands outside of the cornucopia. After, he tugs the rope to make sure her hands and legs are secure and won't be able to come out. They are.

As a last final touch, he curves the two corners of her mouth upward, so it looks like she's smiling.

 _See, see mom? See dad? See Panem? He's a good guy. He always has been, and always will be._

Stepping back to admire his work, he thinks of how proud his parents would be right now. Their son, who they thought could never commit to or would amount to anything in his life, has captured a trained career and is fourteen cannons away from winning the Hunger Games.

When he wins, he'll finally amount to something.

And he'll do it all while staying committed to his morals.

Little does he know they're already long, long gone.

* * *

 _Manisha Rollins, 15._

 _District Eleven Female._

* * *

For the past day, she's been constantly trying to convince herself she's not a monster.

 _It was an accident,_ she tells herself silently, _an accident. That's all it was._

 _She didn't kill Winnifred. She just fell. She caught her, then her hand slipped, and she fell. There was no malintent, and if it were anyone else, she would have dropped them the same. She never had anything against Winnifred. They were allies—friends, even._

But she's not even fooling herself. No matter how many times she tells herself that she didn't kill Winnifred, she knows that she did. She loathed that girl. The way she talked down to her, calling her Manida like she wasn't even important enough to have her name remembered—well, it made her sick. It reminded her of the girls she disliked so much back in Eleven, the ones who would purposely ignore her because she was different. She hated them too—with all the breath that was in her lungs—and often wished some bad, horrible accident would happen to them. She never said anything to them, but passively hoped karma would make its way around.

Yet, she didn't think that she was capable of something like that—killing another person. She's always seen herself as a nice, quiet, sweet girl: never as a monster. Not someone who would hate another human enough to wish they were dead. Yet, she hated Winnifred like that. That feeling inside, the feeling that she got when she dropped her, well, it was scary. She didn't think she had it in her. But apparently, she did.

And maybe—she really hopes not—but maybe that feeling wasn't a simple product of Winnifred. Maybe it was inside her all along.

And maybe—just maybe—she finds herself not really feeling sorry for what she did. Standing up to Winnifred felt good, relieving. She felt like a confident person for once in her damn life and felt like at that moment, the moment she let Winnifred's hand slip, she was finally happy with the person that she was.

She was confident. Bold. Unapologetic. She was Manisha, and she was a badass.

 _Who says that's something to be sorry about?_

Now Takei sits in front of her, going on and on about how much he misses Winnifred. Manisha always thought when she died things would be different. Takei always ignored her a little when Winnifred was around, not entirely, but did box her out of a few conversations and always ran up to walk with the girl from Six, leaving her to trail behind. Manisha understood though. He had a crush and wanted to spend as much time as he could with her. It was completely understandable. However, she always imagined that when Winnifred was gone, he'd focus all his attention on her. They'd actually have conversations like real friends did—about their favorite foods, their favorite books, what they ate for breakfast, or really, anything. She'd be given attention for once in her life.

Yet, she feels as painfully alone and ignored as before, isolated in her own little world. Takei doesn't talk about any of the things she imagined him to. All he talks about is Winnifred—oh, how Manisha loathes her—and nothing else. Everything is all like _if Winnifred were here, do you think she'd be telling us jokes? Or, oh, weren't Winnifred's eyes so pretty? Wasn't the way she laughed so cute?_

Well, Manisha can tell jokes too. Her eyes are pretty—yes, they might not be as bright as Winnifred's—but they're still wide and round, like a doe's. And her laugh is cute too, Takei just hasn't heard it enough.

Maybe he's ignoring her because he knows that Manisha killed Winnifred. It possible that he's just mad, and isn't talking to her because he hasn't forgiven her yet. If that's the case though, she wonders why Takei hasn't killed her yet. He must want revenge.

Manisha wonders if he's waiting until she falls asleep, then he'll strike. She'll be an easier target when she's not awake. It makes sense. A lot of sense, actually.

She needs to strike faster than. She needs to kill him before he kills her. When he falls asleep, she'll steal his knife and—

But then she stops herself. She's probably just being paranoid. Last night she asked him a bunch of questions and it seemed like he was clueless about how things went down. It's more likely he's just hung up over his first crush dying. That'd make sense.

Still, a girl can wonder.

"Freddie would have been telling us ghost stories right now," Takei murmurs wistfully, his eyes softening as he thinks about her. "She was always the best story-teller. Her stories were so suspenseful and creative."

They weren't, Manisha thinks but doesn't dare say anything. They all ended the same way—with everyone dying, just like every horror movie ever. Instead of correcting him, Manisha finds herself silently fuming, jealous of a girl she doesn't even like.

It goes on like this for a while, Takei longingly speaking about Winnifred, and Manisha longingly wishing that Takei would talk about something else—anything else. She tries to change the subject a few times but all her attempts end vainly, and she finds her mind drifting back to the possibility of Takei knowing that she did indeed let Winnifred's hand slip, and what will happen to her if he does. She probably won't live until morning, that's for sure.

So it's then that she decides, as Takei weeps for a girl who never felt the same way about him, that she's going to take the offensive and strike first. She doesn't quite know why it's then she decides. Maybe she's feeling confident. Maybe it's paranoia. Or maybe she's just feeling jealous and angry that this moment wasn't what she played it up to be in her mind, and Takei, just like everyone else in the whole universe, is ignoring her too. Or maybe it's a mix of the three, a bit of rage sprinkled in with a dash of paranoia, and a little confidence thrown in there too.

All she knows is that she's done with people treating her like she doesn't even exist. The girls at school did it, Winnifred did it, and now, Takei is doing it too. She's through.

Takei falls asleep eventually. She doesn't quite know when, but it happens, and the quiet sobs and painful groans aren't ringing through her ears anymore.

Standing to her feet, a nervous wave floods over her.

 _Is she really going to do this? Is she really going to unleash the monster that she secretly knows is somewhere inside her?_

She doesn't really know the answer to that question, but her legs continue to walk forward without her brain telling them to, so apparently, the answer is yes. She is going to do this. She's going to kill him, and she's going to stand up for herself.

Bending down slowly, she pries the knife out of his hand as he sleeps. She wiggles it out slowly, and he simply groans and rolls onto his side, his eyes still closed.

She's so nervous that she can't breathe.

Standing over him with a shaking arm, grips the knife feverishly in her hands. She feels powerful. With one slice of the knife, she could end Takei's life.

Stepping forward, she inches toward him. Yet, as her foot makes contact with the ground, a crunching sound emits. She must have stepped on one of the embers or sticks from the fire they had last night. Clumsy, as always. Instantly, she squeaks and stumbles backward, eyes wide. She drops the knife on the ground in the process, and it clatters loudly against the hard concrete. Takei's eyes have opened too, and he stares up at her groggily.

"Huh?" he mumbles.

It takes him a second to put two and two together. He looks at the knife on the ground, then back at her face, then back toward the knife, and then his jaw drops and he scrambles to his feet, away from her.

She'll never forget the look he gave her when he glanced up for a second time. It was one of sheer horror.

"You!" he exclaims, putting his hand up between the two of them as a defense. "You killed her!"

"I didn't—" Manisha goes to defend herself, but sees no point in it and stops herself. She did.

"Get-get away from me, you—you—you murderer!" he screeches, continuing to back away from her, his eyes wide in terror.

"I—l –l—l—" Manisha stutters, tripping over her own words.

"Don't make excuses. I knew it was you! I saw your hand drop her. I—I thought it could have just been a trick of the eye, and I knew I saw something, but I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"But-"

"It all makes sense now!" he exclaims, cutting her off. "The way you lied to me on the train about having lived in a community too, and then killing Freddie—you've been duping me! I may be naïve, but I can see right through your little act."

She tries to speak again. "I-"

"You're a little snake, Manisha. You're nothing but a little, scared, good-for-nothing snake."

She's growing a bit frustrated now. If she could only explain herself—"I-"

"I don't even want to hear it! Your voice is just—it just—it infuriates me! I can't believe you killed her. What did you have against her? She was literally perfect! She was everything you weren't. Funny, intelligent, fun and a decent person. You're nothing but a wet rag. I put up with it for a while because I thought you were nice, but I guess I was wrong. You're the shittiest person I've ever met in my entire life, and I have lived in a community where the people I loved were lying to me straight to my face for 17 years!"

"But-"

"Stop!"

"You know what?" she roars, interrupting him. "You stop. You're not even giving me a chance to talk. But what else should I expect? No one has ever given me a chance to talk. Not ever. Not back home, not in school, and certainly not here. Maybe I am a shitty person Takei, and you know what? Maybe I did kill her. And maybe I even liked it. Maybe I relished in it for a moment too long. But it's not because of me that I do stuff like that. It's because people like you. P—"

"It's not—" Takei goes to say, but she cuts him off. She's done being quiet.

"Yes, yes it is. It's people like you who ignore me and think that I'm not important enough to have my voice heard. It's people like Winnifred who don't think my name is important enough to be learned. You and her made me feel less than human. You made me feel like a monster. So don't blame me if I started acting like one."

Then, it's silent. She gasps for breath. Never in her life has she talked that much without stopping before. She realizes her body is shaking, and her lips are trembling.

 _What just happened?_

Takei opens his mouth to respond, but then instead of speaking, locks eyes with her. Then, he dives down toward the knife laying between them on the ground. She launches herself toward it too, but it's Takei who reaches it first.

She swears under her breath and leaps backward, grabbing the taser from her pocket.

"D-don't come near me," she threatens, her voice unsure and trembling.

"I wasn't planning on it," he hisses, then sticks the knife in his bag and slings it over his shoulder. "You're not worth killing anyway. And Manisha, just so you know, I never saw you as anything less than. Or at least, not before you became a murderer. You were always perfectly fine to me."

And then he whips himself around and walks away, leaving her to wonder what the hell just happened.

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

She wakes up in a haze, flustered and groggy as if she had just blacked out drunk and woken up with a terrible hangover. Blinking her dark eyes slowly, she sits up and looks around in confusion.

All she can see is black sand, stretching for what feels like miles, and miles, and miles. Nothing is around her. No one is around her. She's alone.

 _What happened?_

Her head pounds fiercely, and when she tries to remember what just happened—how she got here, where everyone went, she can't. The last thing she can think of is the three of them setting out—Clay, Valentine, and her—in search of Pilate.

Then, when she stands, everything floods back into her brain, reality washing over her like a tidal wave.

She remembers the fog approaching, dark and violent, a cloud of black.

Then they were running, running, running—

Valentine fell behind.

She tried to scream her name, but the girl was already gone, gone, gone—

And Hana lost her in the black.

Then Clay began to slow too, and she tried to grab his hand to pull him forward, but she wasn't quick enough. He slipped from right from her fingers, like sand falling from her fingers, slipping, slipping, slipping—

She squinches her eyes into small slits, hoping that it'll stop her brain replaying the event in her head. She doesn't want to remember the rest when she fell back too, and the black enveloped her, and the air left her lungs and all she could feel was that darkness filling her insides up, terror running through her brain, suffocating her until everything was—

She finds herself gasping for air, her lungs suddenly empty. She feels faint.

 _Where is she?_

 _What happened to her allies?_

 _Why isn't she dead?_

She needs to sit. She needs to sit now.

Flopping herself down on the ground, she lays in the soft sand for a moment, taking deep breaths in. Calm, calm, she repeats in her head, though it doesn't stop her limbs from trembling and her fingers from twitching. Her head still feels as light as air, and her lungs still feel deprived of the same element.

Nothing feels right.

 _What's going on?_

Deep down, she does know what's going on, but she wishes she didn't. Whatever feeling of false control she thought had over the games is gone, and now, she's alone. And for the first time during the games, she feels afraid too. She might be the most trained and prepared tribute here, but she wasn't prepared for that fog. She might have been the fastest runner in the academy and might have run ten miles every morning to be ready to outrun anyone during the games, but she wasn't fast enough to outrun that.

This fact, the fact that she might not have been prepared for everything, scares her most.

She needs to find her allies. She needs to find Valentine and Clay. If she's not dead, they're probably not either. They can help her.

 _But will they, really?_

She stands to her feet, shaking away the dizzy feeling and the little voice in her head telling her that everything won't be alright.

"It will," she whispers to herself. "It will."

For one of the first times her in life, she finds that she doesn't believe her own words.

* * *

 _Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Male._

* * *

He can't believe that little brat got away.

"Pilate, you need to calm down," Freyja tells him as they walk around the tree, scouring for footprints in the sand that will lead them in her direction. "She's not worth it. She's really not."

Maybe in the game's sense, yes, she wasn't worth it. She was weak and frail and nimble. Some mutt will probably swallow her whole before he has a chance to even find her. However, finding her would be worth it for Pilate's dignity. Killing her—sinking his sword through her flesh—well, it would make him feel more like a man.

Draco wouldn't have let a silly, little 12-year-old girl who's only skill is having a big vocabulary beat him. So he won't, either.

"It's been a day. She's probably long gone."

"The arena isn't that big," he replies. "We'll find her."

"You have an obsession with this girl."

He doesn't deny that he does.

Freyja continues on blabbering. "You know, one time my dad told me that if people didn't like me and made fun of me, I just needed to let it go. Because in life, Pilate, there will be a lot of people who just don't like you. I mean—especially you. You kind of suck."

He smiles at her sarcastically. "You're making me feel so much better, Freyja. Thanks."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm being serious, Pilate! Just forget about it. You'll feel so much better."

He turns around sharply to face her. "No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

"And since when did you become a therapist, Ms. Spoiled-Mayor's-Daughter?" he retorts, narrowing his cold eyes at her.

"I've always provided lots of advice for my friends," Freyja chortles cheerfully.

"Friends? I didn't think you had any of those," he counters. "Because while I do suck, and I know I suck, you do kind of suck too."

"I do not! And for your information, I had the best parties at my house. There were always tons of people there. I had tons of friends."

"Alright," he quips back. "Name one then."

"Well, uh—there was uh—"

He raises a brow at her. "See? Exactly my point."

"Well, I'm thinking of a few. I just don't want to say their names because I'm trying to let it go, just like I told you to do."

"Oh, you mean like you let go of Sky?"

Instantly, Freyja's face goes red as a cherry, and he smirks mischievously at her.

"I told you not to ever say his name again!" she shrieks.

"Whose name again?" he asks her, that giant grin still plastered on his face. "I'm forgetting because as you said, you had so many friends. I think it was Sky, right? Or was it Skylar? Yes, it was definitely Skylar. Spelled S-K-Y-L-A-R. Or is it Skylar with an E? S-K-Y—"

"Would you STOP it?" Freyja roars, her pale face flushing even redder. "I know exactly what you're doing, you little piece of—"

"Freyja, I think you need to take your own advice, and as you said, let it go," he coos, grabbing her by the chin with two fingers and shaking her head back and forth slowly. "And leave me alone, okay? Someone needs to find that little rat from 10, and you have absolutely no skills, so it's not going to be you."

She growls, pushing herself away from him.

"Fuck you," she snarls, and he grins devilishly at her.

"Your two favorite words, it seems."

"Only when I'm around you."

"Then leave."

But as always, she stays right there, under his thumb.

His point exactly.

He goes back to searching for Marguerite's tracks, and he's not going to stop until he finds something.

* * *

 _Solomon Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Male._

* * *

If Tyrell thinks that he's going to let his guard down, he's wrong.

When the boy from Six volunteered to take the third watch, Luna was ecstatic. For her, she was happy to get more sleep, and of course, she trusted the boy right off the bat. She trusts everyone right from the beginning, as Solomon knows she always sees the best in everyone. Which is good in some scenarios, but certainly not in the Hunger Games, when too much trust can be used as a weapon against you. He's convinced that Tyrell is certainly going to use that weapon against them.

So here they are, Solomon staring at the deaf boy from Six across the fire, eyes narrowed and body on high alert. Meanwhile, Luna sleeps on the ground, nestled in the blanket, gas mask still on. Solomon knows the gas storm is over, yes, but he's afraid of the lasting effects that whatever was in that cloud could have on them. He guesses most likely nothing, but it's not worth it to take the risk. He's getting Luna out of here alive, and nothing is going to stop him. He's not going to make some silly little mistake that would cost him a lot. Luna didn't like it, but it is what it is.

Tyrell blinks at him. Solomon blinks back.

 _What is it?_ He mouths to the boy. _Want me to go to sleep so you can kill both of us?_

Tyrell doesn't respond, staring at him blankly. He probably couldn't read his lips across the fire, as the light was pale and dim. Still, Solomon knows the boy sees more than he lets on. His eyes are curious and attentive, and he guesses that during training Tyrell kept his shades on so other tributes wouldn't notice that he's more of a threat then they perceived. But here, he's not allowed to have his glasses, and Solomon sees right through his little act.

A part of him wonders if he is actually deaf. Solomon knows the boy from Six can read lips—he read his during training and seems to pick up on pieces of conversations and knows a general gist of what's going on. Solomon could just be being paranoid, but maybe Tyrell was faking being deaf so he could be underestimated. It was a good idea actually—pretending that he couldn't hear things when he could. It was entirely probable. Especially for a sly boy like him.

At least he's leaving tomorrow. That's what he and Luna agreed upon: 24 hours after he woke up, he would leave. He knows Luna likes the boy and Solomon can see that she starting to get attached, but he won't let him stay. It's too much of a risk, and the boy is too much of a wildcard. Tyrell could screw them over, and Solomon's not letting that happen.

He can't wait until he leaves.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Sorry that took so long! I had a bit of writers block and instead of writing I did a lot of drawing the past two weekends, so uh, yeah. Next chapter should be out a bit quicker though. And yeah, not that much happened here, but next time it's going to pick up. A lot._

 _Though, I did plan these games out last weekend, and they're going to be about two weeks long. So I guess the action is going to be a bit spread out. The chapters will soon be cut down to just one a day, so no night/day, and hopefully that will make it go a little faster. But still. We're in this for the long haul._

 _Alliances:_

 _Careers (separated): Clay, Val, Hana_

 _Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja_

 _Sibs: Sol, Luna_

 _Back together: Terra, Eliora_

 _D12: Mortimer, North_

 _Loners: Tyrell, Braxton, Marguerite, Takei, Manisha_

 _I hope everyone's happy with the arcs their characters are getting, and happy Superbowl Sunday! I'm a pats fan, so I'm happy, but then again, it seems like they're always in it haha._

 _paper :)_


	37. Day V: At Least I'm Being Me

_Day V: At Least I'm Being Me_

* * *

 _Takei Sadeh, 17._

 _District Eleven Male._

* * *

He's so angry.

He grips the knife so hard in his hand that his palm has begun to bleed, red blood seeping out of the wound. He doesn't care. It doesn't matter anymore. He deserves to suffer for not seeing that Manisha was a horrible person all along. If he picked up on the signs maybe Freddie would still be alive, and that—that _monster_ would be dead instead.

But he doesn't even want her to be dead. He could have killed her right there—thrown that knife right through her heart, piercing it exactly how Freddie's death pierced his. But he didn't. If she was dead, she wouldn't have to suffer like he was suffering now. It would all be over. Leaving her alone to deal with her own actions and their consequences was a far worse punishment. Living with herself—with what she did would be far more painful.

He stomps through the crumbling city aimlessly, not really knowing where he's going. He just wants to get as far away from his former ally as possible. She disgusts him. Revolts him. The thought of her makes him want to puke in his mouth.

Maybe it's people like her that his fathers were trying to shelter him from, people who would swindle him, dupe him, and leave him for dead. In his community, there was no one mean. No one was a murderer. No one would ever think of killing a perfectly sweet, cheerful, fun-loving young girl like Freddie. He might not have been able to be himself, but at least he was safe. That's more than he can say about everywhere else.

He eventually comes upon the ally where they found the mutant dogs—before everything happened. He bites his bottom lip and peers anxiously down the dark street. Nothing is there. He half expected to see Freddie standing right there, in the middle of the street, but there is no motion in the still darkness.

Yet, he does hear a faint rumbling in the black. He doesn't really know why—everything in his brain is screaming at him to leave—but he turns down the alley anyway, knife in hand, raised to strike. He walks warily down the cracked street, his toes pressed against the bottom of his shoes, and his teeth clenched together nervously.

The sound grows louder as he walks further into the darkness. He realizes it's coming from within a dumpster that lays on the side of the alley. He warily approaches it, still not really knowing quite why he's not running away. He's always been curious, but that's not enough of an explanation this time. He knows there's nothing good inside there. It's something much more self-destructive coming from within like he's yearning for something bad to happen to him.

Gently cracking open the metal lid of the dumpster, he peers inside. His eyes widen when he spots a small dog no bigger than his head digging around. He smiles sweetly. It's kind of cute. Yet, then it turns toward him, revealing a fifth leg, and he instantly takes back what he thought a moment ago. It's not cute.

It must be one of the puppies of the mutant dogs who attacked Freddie.

A wave of anger instantly washes over him, and before he knows it he's stabbing wildly at the puppy, jabbing his knife into its flesh. It cries a few times but then goes silent, it's body falling limp into the pile of trash. Yet, he doesn't stop. He can't stop. He just keeps stabbing and stabbing, the anger that's been building up over the past 12 hours releasing.

After a few minutes, he steps back and gasps for air. However, he doesn't have much of a chance to before something sharp enters his body just below his rib cage, sending a shock through his entire body

He lets out a terrified scream as he falls to the ground, electricity zapping through his veins. He also drops the bloody knife, and it clatters to the ground loudly.

"And you said I was a monster, you hypocrite," a voice behind him spits, and he instantly knows who it is.

"Manisha," he snarls, disgusted with how her name sounds on his tongue.

He should have killed her while he had the chance.

Turning onto his back, he glares up at her, his eyes blazing with anger. "What do you want? Validation?" he hisses back, his body still pulsing with electricity. "Because you're no better than me."

She growls and jabs the taser at him again. He yelps as it shocks him, sending a wave of pain through his body. He deserves it though. It's what he gets for letting Manisha kill Freddie, a payback of sorts.

Manisha picks up the knife. "I don't need any validation from you. I already know that I'm better than you, and I'm done with people telling me I'm not."

She zaps him again. He yelps, and tries to go backward, but he finds that he can't move, his body frozen in shock.

He speaks instead. "You're not," he grits through bared teeth, pushing through the pain. "You're not, and you'll never be, and I don't need to tell you that because deep down, you know it. You're a monster. An ugly, selfish, horrible monster."

Manisha pauses for a moment, and for a second there, he thinks she's about to burst into tears.

But she doesn't. Instead, she bites her lips and stares down at him, her eyes blazing with a fiery determination.

"Maybe I am," Manisha hisses, "but at least I'm being me."

And then she jabs the knife downward, and he screams out in pain. It hurts—everything hurts, but even so, he doesn't regret what he said. If Freddie taught him anything, it was that he should express himself however he wanted. He shouldn't let anything stop him or suppress how he feels. Not his community, not his dads, and certainly not Manisha with her taser.

He truly, with all this heart, thinks that she was a monster, so he isn't going to take back what he said, even if it gives him a few more minutes of life. It's not what Freddie would have done, and it's not what he'll do either.

Maybe like Manisha, he's learned how to finally express himself.

Too bad he learned that lesson too late.

* * *

 _Valentine Holloway, 16._

 _District One Female._

* * *

She jolts awake to the sharp sound of a cannon.

"What? What's going—" she quickly stutters, her eyes widening with fright as she blinks her eyes rapidly, letting them adjust to her new surroundings. The last thing she remembered she was swallowed by the black cloud and she couldn't breathe. Is she dead?

For a moment, everything is white. Or at least, it is in her one good eye that she has left. Is this heaven? she wonders. But then slowly her vision adjusts and she's able to see again, the arena reappearing around her. The endless black sand. The debilitating ruins. The craving for revenge. It all comes back, flooding over her like a tidal wave. She smiles. She wasn't ready to go yet. Not before she kills Pilate, that is.

After letting herself adjust to her surrounding, she tries to stand. However, she finds that she can't move. She wiggles her arms and finds that they're stuck too, bound by a tight rope that wraps around her.

Suddenly, she sees a figure appear in front of her, cackling wildly.

"Ten?" she gawks, her mouth dropping as the short boy comes into focus.

"It's Braxton, actually," he coos, his voice sounding oddly friendly for having presumably tied her up like this. "Braxton Busbee. It's a pleasure to formally meet you."

She frowns, narrowing her eyes in confusion. Why is he introducing himself, now at all times? "I could really care less."

"You should care though," he chuckles, pulling a machete out from behind him. Her eyes widen as he dangles it in front of her, the blade just inches from her face. She tries to pull herself back but find that she can't even move that much. "Because if you couldn't see, I have all the power now. You're the one who's all tied up now, right?"

She growls. "Then untie me."

"And why would I do that?"

"So we can have a fair fight," she responds bluntly. It what she would do. After all, it's the careers' way. "No tricks."

He laughs, raising a brow in amusement. "If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already."

She knows this, but it was worth a shot anyway.

"So what are you planning to do with me, Ten?" she asks.

"It's Braxton."

"Whatever."

"It's not whatever!" the boy fumes. "I saved your life. I could have killed you, but I saved you! And for what? For you not even to bother learning my name? I'm a human too. I know you careers might just see me as some little pawn that you can use to win, but I'm not. I have a personality like you too, and a family back at home. I have morals, and—"

"Then let me go," Valentine demands, flashing him a bright, friendly, fake smile. "If you really are as good of a person as you say you are, that is."

"No, that's not how it works!"

Valentine purses her lips. From her first read of him, it seems that he's looking for validation. He wants to be the hero. Badly too, because from the way his nostrils flared when she ignored his name elicited a massive reaction. He's a little off his rocker. Which means that if she finds what he's planning to do with her and plays this right, he might be crazy enough to let her go.

Because with all that she's gone through—a coma, losing her eye, Clay almost betraying her, and the cloud of poisonous gas— he's not letting some minor, unstable, and untrained tribute stop her from killing Pilate. No way in hell.

"Okay then, Braxton," she coos, her tone a little more friendly this time, but still as fake. "Thanks for saving me."

"You're welcome," he replies with a satisfied grin.

"Could you tell me what you're going to do with me now?" she asks sweetly, but then realizes something is missing. "Please," she adds at the end for good measure.

He nods his head and continues smiling. "Alright. All you had to do was ask nicely. See, it wasn't that hard? I'm a good, reasonable guy."

She holds back the urge to roll her eyes. Enough with this being a "good guy" already. Good guys don't win the Hunger Games, and if he's trying so hard to convince her and himself that he is one, he must not be, plain and simple.

"Anyway, as you know, I attacked your alliance the other day. However, it wasn't self-provoked. Your ally Clay—that little snake—approached me the morning before with a proposition."

Valentine's eyebrow arches in surprise. _She knew it! She knew her ally was trying to betray her!_ Still, she takes Braxton's words with a grain of salt. The look in his eyes that he has when he talks—well, she's seen that look before in her own. It's a look of sheer determination—of obsession—of craziness. For him, the truth might be slightly distorted. Or, he could just be flat out lying. She doesn't know for sure, so she can't take anything he says as absolute truth.

Braxton continues his story. "I had just kille—erm—watched Clay kill my ally, Gareth. I was petrified. I thought he was going to kill me too. But instead, he put his sword down and told me that he didn't want to harm me. Instead, he said that he needed me for something. And I know what you must be thinking, what could Clay need me, a small, scrawny outer district kid for? I was just as bewildered. I thought he was lying to me when he told me that he needed me to help him kill both you and Hana. And apparently, he was, because when I came that night, he didn't go through with the plan, which was for both of us to turn on you two at the same time! He made me look crazy in front of all of Panem. Like a fool. A crazy, over-trusting, desperate fool. So now I'll do the same to him."

Valentine raises her eyebrow. _So he wants revenge?_ This could work. This could work well. Really well.

She smiles.

She knows exactly what to do.

 _After all, who knows about revenge better than herself?_

* * *

 _Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Ten Female._

* * *

Something isn't quite right.

She doesn't know why though. There's nothing around that would tell her that something is wrong. It's as silent as she likes it, and nothing smells or looks funny. Also, there are no rolling black clouds barreling in on her or black birds circling high in the air above. Nothing should be wrong, but it is.

Then she recognizes the feeling.

Someone's watching her.

It's not the cameras though. Those have been watching her for the entirety of the game, and she's felt fine. It's someone—or something else. Her first thought is Pilate and Freyja, as she knows they're coming after her, but she quickly eliminates them from the list. They're far too loud, and even if they tried, couldn't stay silent with each other for a second.

It's something else.

Glancing around the street for any signs of life, she spots nothing at first. Yet, on her second scan, she spots a skinny hand poking out from behind the building, and smiles slightly to herself. Observing the girls silently in her group home for nine years has prepared her for this.

Whoever is stalking her is good, but not good enough to fool her.

"I've spotted you," Marguerite murmurs, glancing over to the hand. "You can make yourself known now, would you?"

The figure doesn't move, and she takes a step toward it.

"I don't bite," she lies. "Come out."

Then, a moment later, Pilate's district partner flies out from behind the corner, sailing toward her.

Marguerite leaps out of the way just in time. The girl's long, sharp sword narrowly misses her arm, and swipes through the air instead, slashing at nothing but oxygen and other particles that Marguerite once read about in some chemistry book.

The girl springs up again, not looking the least bit frustrated. Unlike Pilate, who when trying to slash her with his sword for the first time, hissed and growled like a frustrated child when he missed. Yet, the look in her eyes is no more determined than his were, and burn bright with the same desire for blood.

Marguerite knows she can't fight her. Her only option is to run.

So she sprints down the crumbling path, hopping over the rail and onto the main street that leads back to the cornucopia. As she runs, a million thoughts run through her mind.

The first is as to why the career girl is alone. Last she knew, the three careers—the girl from Two, and both tributes from One—were alive and allied. They'd been laughing together during training, and she couldn't have imagined they would have broken up already, especially when the numbers were still so high. Career breakups generally didn't happen until around the final 8. Something must have happened. Something bad.

Her next few thoughts are how she's going to get out of this situation. The career girl is fast, and while Marguerite is quick too, the career's long legs are about the size of her entire body. There's no way she can outrun her. She needs to find an out, and she needs to find one fast.

Yet, there aren't many hiding spots or trees to climb up and wait it out again. Everything around the road is black sand and nothing else. There are a few houses off in the distance, but she doubts that she'd be able to make it there. And for the few trees she passes, this girl is skinner and more agile than Pilate. She'd be able to climb up just as high as Marguerite would be able to.

She needs to think of something else. Something quick.

But she doesn't have much time. The next thing she knows the career is lunging toward her and has grabbed onto her leg. She brings Marguerite down quickly, her small, frail body smashing against the ground.

She tries to stand back up, but the career tightly clutches her leg, not letting her go no matter how hard she kicks.

Slowly, she's being pulled back. The career yanks at her leg, pulling her closer and closer to her sword. Marguerite clenches her teeth together and claws at the ground, trying to pull herself forward. However, it's of little success, and as a whole, she's being dragged backward.

Flipping onto her back, she looks up just in time to see the girl from Two's sword slamming down on her.

With a frightened yelp, she rolls onto her side and out of the way. The blade hits the hard pavement with a clank.

The girl now swipes it sideways, and Marguerite tries to flatten herself, but it ends up scrapping her face, cutting a big scar across it.

She stifles back a yelp and sucks in tears welling in her eyelids. Red dots her vision, and through it, she can see the career raise her sword for the killing blow.

Marguerite said she wouldn't do this—she vowed she would stick to her true self and not play some character everyone else wanted her to play, but right now, it seems she has no other choice.

She wants to survive, so she's going to do what she has to do.

She's going to play the little, innocent, scared 12-year old card. Yes, it might not work, and yes, it might be compromising everything that she prides herself on—but if lets her survive, bring it on.

And above all else, she's a survivor. It's what she's always done, and it's what she'll always do. There's no changing that.

So, she starts to bawl.

* * *

 _Mortimer Maximus, 16._

 _District Twelve Male._

* * *

Everything happens so fast.

One moment they are walking along the streets of the city, North blabbering on about some nonrelevant subject as usual. He's carrying her on his shoulders because her ankle is still hurting from the hard fall she took yesterday. It reminds him of how he used to carry his little sister when they went to the Hub back in Twelve, as she always got tired quickly. The walk was always long from his house, but he didn't mind. They got to spend time together, and that was all that mattered. He'd give anything to see his little Ren again, to watch her face light up when she saw him enter the room—to watch her crooked teeth twist into a giant, bright smile. With North, it's almost the same. Seeing her gives him the same, warm and fuzzy feeling spotting his sister used to. She even calls him Morty, just like Ren did. Plus, carrying her isn't hard. She's light, so he's happy to carry her for a while if it relieves some of her pain. And for these moments—for these short, fleeting seconds, everything feels okay again. It's normal.

Or, it almost is.

Because the next thing he knows, North's curdling scream is ringing through his ears and they're sprinting down the street as a career is fast on their heels. Mortimer doesn't have time to figure out who he is. All he knows is that he's tall, muscular, has a large, sharp sword, and looks like he can swallow both North and him whole.

Reality has kicked back in, and it feels even worse than he imagined, like a million punches to the gut.

Slowly, North falls behind. Normally, he knows she can run a lot faster than he can, but since her ankle is still twisted, she can't. A moment later he rounds a corner and loses her behind the tall walls of the crumbling skyscrapers.

His mind screams at him to keep going, but his heart tells him to go back. And like the fool he is, he listens to his heart, because that's what he's always done. He'd like to think that he's different—he always imagined himself in his head to be a cunning, cutthroat, and intelligent person, but at the end of the day, when it comes down to the wire, his heart has won over his brain every time. He knows this deep down, and when it comes to North, whom he practically sees as his little sister now, the only thing he can physically do is follow what the beating lump in his chest is telling him to.

"North!" he screams as he retraces his steps, rounding the same corner in reverse. Instantly, he sees her entangled with the career, fending off his sword with her knife. Her eyes are wide with terror, and she's slowly backing up toward the wall. Soon she'll have nowhere to go, and then she won't be able to defend herself any longer.

Instinctively, he barrels toward the blonde career and shoves him as hard as he can. The career barely moves a single foot, stumbling slightly. However, it gives them enough time to get away. He takes North's hand and they sprint forward, away from the other tribute.

Yet, after about two steps, North stops abruptly.

"North, what are you doing?" he hollers at her, his brows furrowed in confusion. "Why are you not r—"

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Morty," she mutters, her tone drastically different from anything he's ever heard come out of her mouth before. It's solemn, almost. All her exuberance and spontaneity has fleeted, and for what feels like an eternity, though he knows it's only a split second, she looks him dead in the eyes.

He tries to ask her what she means—why she's sorry—but before he even has a chance to open his mouth North thrusts her knife right into his shoulder. He lets out a loud yelp and stumbles backward, clutching the spot where the metal entered his flesh.

It hurts more than anything he's ever felt in his life.

Then, he hits something hard, and he tumbles to the ground, landing right on top of the career.

Through his blurry vision, he can see North's back as she sprints away, bloody knife in hand. He reaches out to grab her but then she's gone, his vision beginning to blacken. The next thing he knows the career is standing over him, swiping his sword downward, just like North did with her knife to him a moment before.

Yet, when the sword enters his body, he doesn't feel any pain. His body tingles numbly; it's a warm feeling, almost. Maybe it's because North's knife already used up all the pain that was in him—it didn't only shatter his skin, but his heart too.

He trusted her with everything he had. He treated her like she was his own sister. He opened himself up for once in his life, and let his walls down. All for her. _And what did she do for him in return?_ Cut him off when she no longer needed him. Left him behind like he was nothing more than a pawn in her game. He would have taken a bullet for her, but apparently, the reverse wasn't true.

He shouldn't have trusted her. He never should have.

She wasn't his sister. He might have pretended she was—at least, for a fleeting moment there—but she wasn't. She never was. No. She wasn't Ren. She was North fucking Briar. And as always, she left him confused and dazed, and this time, there was no recovering.

Yet, even at her worst moments, when she annoyed him to no end, Mortimer still thought that she was one of the good ones. One of the ones that wouldn't let the Hunger Games corrupt them and wouldn't let the Capitol change who they were. He truly believed that she was one of the ones who deep down, had a pure heart.

But maybe North was always like this. Maybe he was just too blind to see it.

Or even scarier: maybe there are no good ones in the Hunger Games. Maybe Panem breeds them all to be monsters because in this distorted, savage world, only the ruthless survive.

And maybe that's why it's him, not North, who's the one dying.

* * *

 **A/N:** I hope that was an exciting chapter, eh? We finally have some deaths (!) and some more action that almost resulted in deaths. This chapter was one of my favs to write, so I hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I did!

Also - might be a little while until the next one. I have some stuff planned for the next month that's pretty hectic, but don't worry, I'll probably end up procrastinating other stuff and doing this instead, so there shouldn't be too big of a break.

Also, quick question for you all. After the events of this chapter, and because I know people have VERY different opinions, are you #teamNorth, or #teamSouth?

Eulogy time!

16th: Takei Sadeh, District Eleven Male, stabbed by Manisha.

Okay, I probably have to apologize for this one. I was talking to you on discord Goldie and kind of gave you a little false hope with what happened last chapter and him possibly getting another arc. So sorry if you thought he was going to live a little longer, and sorry if I faked out out a bit! Anyway, I loved Takei, and his arc with his allies was fun to write, especially his scenes with Freddie. They were just so crazy. I really liked his character design and he was super neat, and I would have liked to experiment with his background a bit more, but I felt like Manisha was just the stronger of the two characters arc-wise and I didn't really know where to take Takei next. He did in the end play a bit of a third-wheel to his bigger-than-life allies even if Manisha was the third wheel relationship wise. Anyway, he was awesome and unique and everything I could have asked for, so thanks Goldie!

15th: Mortimer Maximus, District Twelve Male, killed by Clay.

MORTTYYYYYY I LOVE YOU. You are such a good little guy and I just want to squeeze your cheeks and I wish you were my older brother, haha. You're just too pure for this story and the games and North really did screw you over. But it's what was going to happen, and honestly, I think it was inevitable. But I'll miss you still. A lot. Thanks SirShalay for Morty, who was actually the last tribute I recieved. The story would not have been the same without him!

Alliances:

Careers (separated): Clay, Val, Hana

Anti-Careers: Pilate, Freyja

Twins: Sol, Luna

We're all just confused: Terra, Eliora

Loners: Tyrell, Braxton, Marguerite, Manisha, North

Okay see you all next time!

paper :)


	38. Night V: Remorseless

_Night V: Remorseless_

* * *

 _North Brier, 14._

 _District Twelve Female._

* * *

She's not sorry for what she did to Mortimer.

She might have said she was sorry, but not for what she did. She's sorry for the situation the universe put her in where he had to choose between her and Mortimer. Because it shouldn't be like that. Panem shouldn't be a place where children have to kill each other to survive. Mortimer was a good, decent person. She shouldn't have had to kill him.

But when it came down to it, she did. It was her or him. And she'll pick herself every time. _What's to be sorry about?_

It's just the situation she was put in. She didn't have a choice.

Survival above all else is her motto. And that's exactly what she did.

Hate her or love her, one has to admit that she's good at what she does.

* * *

 _Tyrell Taiko, 15._

 _District Six Male._

* * *

For hours, Solomon has been trying to get him to leave.

The signs aren't hard to pick up on. Solomon isn't subtle, to say the least. For the first few hours just after they woke up, he kept motioning his eyes toward the door of the hideout. When he thought Tyrell didn't pick up on that, he'd make hand motions like little waves telling him to shoo. And finally, for the past few hours, he had been standing near the door, impatiently tapping his foot. Every time Tyrell glanced over in his direction, he would mouth the words get out with big, annunciated, and exaggerated vowels so even the youngest of children could understand.

And Tyrell's not dumb. He picks up a lot more than he lets on, but he doesn't have to let Solomon know that too, even though he already has his suspicions that Solomon, like him, he's very observant and probably thinks the same about him. Luna, meanwhile, seems to be oblivious about everything. Or, conversely, she does notice this tension but is just ignoring it and trying to play the role of peacemaker. Either way, he hasn't left yet, and he's not planning to leave for a while.

Why would he? With the twins, he has food, a warm fire to sleep by at night, and company. Alone he has nothing but his wits. And most of all, the twins have all five working senses, not just four. Someone could sneak up on him and he could never know it. The twins give him the protection that may just end up saving his life.

The sun is beginning to sink below the horizon line, and he smiles. Another day has passed where he still hasn't left. Maybe getting hit in the head with a brick was a blessing in disguise, even if he does have a lump on the head the size of his fist and gets pounding headaches every few hours or so, but at least he's alive. Alone, that may not have happened.

However, he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up about staying another night that quickly. Solomon notices his sly smile and comes stomping over to him, fists clenched into tight balls rather bellicosely.

 _What are you so happy about?_ Solomon mouths.

Tyrell blinks innocently at him, pretending to not understand the words that are escaping his lips.

Hissing, Solomon's face contorts in frustration. Then, he does something completely unexpected. With another growl, he whips a knife out of his pocket and points it right at Tyrell's face. Tyrell backs up, his eyes widening in a mix of fear and surprise.

 _Let me try this again because I know you can understand me. Why are you smiling like that? Poisoned our food? Our water? Are planning to kill us in our sleep?_

Luna rushes over. With a soft hand, she starts gently patting Solomon on the shoulder in an attempt to probably calm him down. But it doesn't work, and with another angry growl, he pushes her away.

 _I'm done with these games you're playing. I'm done with you. I don't trust you for a second—_

Trying again, Luna grabs his shoulder a bit more forcefully and pulls him aside, and Tyrell watches as Solomon and she argue. His knife is still pointed right at Tyrell, and he waves it in the air as Tyrell imagines their conversation getting more and more animated.

They're talking quite fast, so he only catches a few keywords here and there. The general gist of the conversation is clear though: they made a plan when he was unconscious that if he woke up again, they would make him leave within the next 24-hours. It's been almost 48. Solomon's angry, and doesn't trust him (for good reason, he thinks silently to himself) but Luna doesn't want to see him go because she's gotten attached, and she's scared that if they make him go alone someone will come and kill him. Then Solomon starts yelling about how Tyrell is playing them and is making himself seem weaker than he actually is, and is going to kill them both in their sleep, and—

In the meanwhile, Solomon's knife is getting closer and closer to Tyrell's face. Tyrell shrinks back toward the wall but soon finds that he has nowhere left to go.

It dawns on him then, as he's pressed up against the crumbling stone wall, that maybe it would be safer if he leaves. Because at this rate, in the long run, it might be safer to stay with the twins, but if he doesn't live through the night, the long run won't matter anyway. He has a feeling that if Luna wins the argument, it won't be for long, because Solomon's temper is flaring. Tyrell wouldn't be surprised if he went after him tonight.

After all, Solomon is in the mindset right now that it's kill or be killed, and since he doesn't trust Tyrell one lick, he has to strike first, leaving Tyrell with only one option—

"I'll leave," he declares suddenly, to the surprise of both Luna and Solomon.

As soon as he says this, the twins both seem to freeze, their conversation instantly ceasing.

 _No, Tyrell, you don't have to—_ Luna goes to say, but Tyrell holds his hand up and silences her.

"It's okay," is all he says, then he moves toward the door. He can feel Solomon's glare follow him as he moves through their hideout as if he was saying I win. Tyrell finds himself cringing at the thought. He's always been a somewhat competitive person, so losing—or even worse, quitting like this, really kills him. But at this point, he doesn't really have a choice.

He doesn't dare look up at Solomon. He's not going to give him that satisfaction. Instead, he raises his head to look at Luna for a split second, giving her a curt wave of his hand. She waves back. And then he lowers his head and turns to leave, stepping out of the door with nothing but his wits and with no idea what monsters are out there waiting to prey on him.

Yet, he doesn't dare turn around. Being regretful will do him nothing but hold him back. He needs to find new opportunities where they arise, and take full advantage of those.

An opportunity arises sooner then he thinks. Only about a few hundred yards from the hideout he spots two figures on the horizon, advancing toward them. His eyes widen and he quickly darts into a prickly bush on the side of a crumbling wall which probably once belonged to another house. His black clothes, though slightly tattered at this point, conceal him well in the darkening night, and he watches as the figures draw nearer.

It doesn't take him long to realize who they are, because the bright red hair of the girl and the tall, muscular frame of the boy are pretty hard to miss. And if he couldn't tell by that, the way they walk gives their identities away—the egotistical swagger they have as the stride, swinging their hips back and forth. Their chests are raised into the sky powerfully, and the boy hauls around a large, golden sword about the size of Tyrell's head. It's none other than Freyja and Pilate, the worst people to probably run into at this point in the games, besides maybe the careers themselves.

An idea strikes him suddenly. He glances over to the small house that he promised he wouldn't look back to, the fire already blazing inside. In a few more minutes the sky will be even darker, and they'll be an easy target for the two approaching tributes. Pilate alone would kill each of them easily for sure, but with Freyja there too, there was no way either of them was escaping alive.

Tyrell is concealed well here, and this time, he could scathe away unharmed. However, what about next time? What if he doesn't spot them as quickly and isn't as lucky? Maybe next time that will be him, as visible as a blazing fire in the dark of the night.

If he warns Luna and Tyrell, maybe he can earn their trust. And if they all get away unscathed, maybe they'll ask him to join their alliance for real this time, no strings attached.

Or maybe not.

However, there's only one way to find out.

* * *

 _Freyja Abbott, 18._

 _District Three Female._

* * *

"Where is that little twat?" Pilate hisses. "Why is it so hard to kill her? She's like four feet tall and doesn't have any fucking weapons. Plus, she's twelve. Everyone knows twelve-year-olds are bloodbaths or at least second-day deaths."

Freyja finds herself rolling her eyes yet again. "This is so ridiculous, Pilate. Let it go. Marguerite will die eventually."

"But I want to be the one to kill her!"

"You sound like you're a five-year-old fighting over what toy you're getting at recess. I know I've already said this, but—"

Pilate shoves a hand over her mouth, then stops abruptly, gazing around in the dark with narrowed eyes.

"Shut up," he breathes almost soundlessly.

She grabs his hand and rips it off her face in disgust, upset that he had the nerve to touch her. Still, she does as he orders and stays quiet, despite the rage burning inside her which just wants to punch him in the face and tell him he's the one who needs to shut up.

Around them, nothing seems to move. Yet, Freyja can tell someone's there. Or something, rather. She just can't sense them yet.

Then, Pilate spots something on the horizon. It's a twinkle of light flickering in the dark of the night, which means only one thing: it must be a tribute.

Pilate breaks into a sprint, and she's right behind him. They fly down the sandy hill in silence, coming upon the dilapidated house with the flickering light inside. As they near it, Pilate doesn't even take a careful approach upon entering. With one swift kick, he breaks down the door and barges inside, Valentine's cat claws in hand, ready to swipe.

Freyja runs through the doorway, half-expected to already see the catclaws impaled through another tribute's neck. However, there is no one in the room. Save for the flickering fire, and a few discarded food wrappers that allude to the fact that someone wasn't here long ago, the house is empty.

Pilate growls in frustration, swiping his cat claws against the wall in anger.

"She's playing with us, that little rat," he hisses, and when he turns toward Freyja, she can see that his eyes are blazing with a wave of hot red anger that burns brighter than the fire beside him. It gives her chills, though she tells herself to not be afraid. This is why she's allying with him, not against him. He won't come after her with that look in his eyes. Not yet, at least. As her father always told her, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It's the best way to be safe in any environment, whether that environment is back at home in Three or in the Games.

"Pilate, stop. You're being paranoid. This can be anyone. It can be the girl from Eleven, or the boy from Six, or even—"

He doesn't let her finish, cutting her off. "It's not no one. It's her."

Freyja takes a deep breath in, trying to calm herself down. It's hard-working with frustrating people who don't listen to reason. There is no way this could be Marguerite, as she had no food, so the wrappers couldn't be her's. However, she doesn't feel the need to argue with Pilate, as she can tell he's on the breaking point. One little comment and he'll be over the top, claws flying like crazy, blood spurting everywhere. She doesn't want that to be her blood, so she stays quiet, going against her every instinct to tell Pilate that he's wrong.

"Okay," Freyja murmurs, playing along. "Well, this fire looks like it's just been lit. She couldn't have gone too far, right?"

"She must be close," Pilate mutters, his eyes darting around the room. "We need to split up."

"I don't have any weapons though. All we have are your cat claws."

Pilate just starts at her unblinkingly, his jaw dropped slightly, as if to say _really?_

"Well, if you're trained like you said you were, you should have no problem killing a twelve-year-old with your hands, right?"

Freyja nods confidently, though a part of her does feel a little scared. For all she knows, it could be the other careers, luring them into a trap. But he's right, she is trained. She's strong. She can handle whatever comes her way.

"Right."

They split up, Pilate going out the door they came in through, while she climbs out the window and circles the back of the house. There is nothing there. She looks in the thorny bushes and a small collapsed structure a few yards away, but everywhere she looks is empty.

Coming back around the house to tell Pilate the news, she sees him lying face down on the ground, a small pool of blood gushing out from the side of his head. Her eyes widen, and she's about to rush up to him when she hears someone step cautiously behind her, their feet flattening the leaves as they approach.

 _Crunch. Crunch._

Whipping around, she blindly flings her fist through the air. It hits something fleshy, and the person that was just behind her is lurched backward, falling on their behind. A rock also hits the ground, landing on the crunchy leaves.

"Tyrell!" someone screams in exasperation.

"I'm okay!" Tyrell, whoever that is apparently, yells back. He then attempts to scamper to his feet, but Freyja's faster and lunges toward him, tackling his skinny body back onto the ground.

He screams again.

"Luna! Sol! Luna!" Tyrell yelps in terror, his eyes wide as Freyja grips his neck in a chokehold.

He tries to struggle, but Freyja's much bigger than he is, and Tyrell doesn't have any success. Yet, around the house, Freyja can hear footsteps circling, and voices whispering.

"We should leave him," a voice murmurs. "It's probably a trap."

Another voice squeaks in protest. "Sol, stop being so negative! He's our friend! He just saved our lives from the careers, and you still think this is a trap?! You need to get out of your head. He's not going to kill us. He never was, and he never is going to be. The only ones who were coming are the careers, and he just saved us from them. We need to save him in return!"

"But if we do, we could die," Sol growls. "It's not worth it. We don't even know him."

"Well, apparently you don't, because you've been so closed off and haven't even given him a chance, but I do. He's one of the nicest people I've ever met in my life, and I'm not going to let him die. I owe him at least that much."

"We owe him nothing, Luna. He did this to himself. He shouldn't have come back."

"Well he did," Luna hisses back.

Then for a moment, there's silence. Freyja continues to hold down on Tyrell's neck, strengthening her grip. She can see his eyes start to flutter, and she just needs to hold on for a moment longer until—

"Luna, come back!" Solomon shrieks and Freyja looks up to see a small, skinny girl around the corner, rock in hand, positioned to throw.

But then a minute later she's yanked back, out of view.

"Sol, stop! Sol, he's going to die! Let me go! He saved our lives! Stop! Stop!"

A cannon sounds, cutting of Luna's wails. Now they're just faint whimpers, fading into the silence of the night.

She decides it's not worth it to go after them. From what she saw of the girl, they're weak little things. They'll die soon anyway. If they needed the deaf boy to save them, they're no threats.

Still, they did knock Pilate out. She looks over at her ally, who is groggily waking up from his little bout of unconsciousness. She thinks smugly to herself that again, she was the one who made the kill. Pilate, for all his talk, still hasn't even taken a life.

That's going to be fun to rub in his face.

She looks down at the dead boy, a bit of the smugness fading. Her mind drifts to her first kill, Sky. She shutters.

 _Why'd you come back to save them, Tyrell? Why?_

Maybe he was lonely, like her. Not being able to hear anyone else's voice must make someone real lonely. It's entirely possible all he wanted was a friend. That wailing girl, Luna, sounded like she cared about him. But not enough to save him. Not enough to be his friend.

Silly boy, silly boy. Friends don't exist in the arena. She knows that best.

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

She couldn't tell you how she got to this point in the games, cold, hungry, tired, and separated from the other careers by who knows how many miles. At this point, Clay and Valentine may as well be all the way across Panem. All the food they packed is with Clay, and all the other supplies, such as the blankets, pillows, matches and cooking-wear is with Valentine, and she's left with a pile of inedible, seemingly useless weapons, most of which she doesn't know how to use. And some water, at least.

And now she's here, shivering inside a crumbling house in the middle of a black desert, huddling up against a fire that's barely warm or big enough for the tiniest of mice.

Oh, and the cherry on top of it all: she's sitting right across from the little twelve-year-old from Ten, her temporary ally.

Yes, the possibly most deadly career is allied with the smallest, frailest, and tiniest tribute in the games. _Predictable?_ No. _But did it happen?_ Yes.

Hana doesn't quite know why she didn't kill her right there, on that road. Even now, as she has had time to contemplate all the events that have occurred today, she still doesn't quite know what compelled her to save the girl. Maybe it was her large, doe-like eyes that reminded her of when she was a child, or maybe it was the relentless tears running down the girl's face that made her cave in.

Or maybe it was that as she was standing over the girl, sword raised, ready to kill, she said that she knew where Hana's allies were. Hana's first assumption was that she was lying and would say anything to keep herself alive, just like they told her at the academy that tributes in the games would do as a tactic for surviving a bit longer, but Hana caved in anyway, dangling onto a little piece of hope that what the girl was saying was real, that the web of lies she was weaving had truth behind it.

Two days ago, Hana would have killed her in a second without even batting an eyelash. But now, everything has changed. She's grown more desperate. More of her plans—all those plans she took years and years of her life to formulate—have denigrated. Everything she's ever known to be true has been thrown out the window. Anything's fair game.

After all, what harm could a little twelve-year old do?

"So, do you want to tell me where my allies are yet?" Hana coos gently, making sure to be careful with the fragile girl, who started crying last time Hana asked.

The girl shakes her head mutely.

"Please?"

The girl shakes her head again. She then pulls something out of her pocket: a few leaves with pointed edges, accompanied by a large, white flower.

Hana tilts her head, watching intently as the girl fiddles with the flower in her hands.

"Want me to braid that into your hair?" Hana asks in a vain attempt to get the girl to try to warm up to her. "It's a very pretty flower."

Marguerite shakes her head, yet again. However, this time, she answers, though it's not the answer Hana wanted to here. "Do you possess some water in your knapsack?"

It's a step though. At least she's talking now.

"Yeah, I do. You want some?"

"Yes."

Hana reaches into her bag, pulling out one of the two canteens inside. She tosses it over to the girl, who catches it in her left hand and unscrews the cap. She takes a long sip from it, obviously very thirsty. Hana wonders if this is the first time she's had a drink since the games begun five days ago. It probably is. Then after drinking, she does something rather peculiar, dropping the flower and leaves in her opposite hand inside the canteen.

"Hey! What are you doing with my water?" Hana asks in alarm, reaching over and snatching the canteen out of Marguerite's hand. "We only have a little left."

Marguerite's eyes widen again, and it looks like she's about to burst into tears again. Hana instantly regrets her small outburst, all of her progress with getting the girl to try to give her the location of her allies evaporated in less than a minute.

"I-I—I thought it would be satisfactory," the girl stutters, sniffling slightly. "The flower, it's uh—well, Jimsonweed. It's strictly native to District Ten, and grows in the deserts. Sometimes we use it to put some extra flavor into our water, especially when we're hungry. I can't fathom that I found it here in the arena. It's so rare. Want to sample it for yourself?"

Hana's original instinct is to say no. As her mother always said to her when she was young, don't take food from strangers you don't trust. And in the games, Hana knows to trust no one. Yet, Marguerite is twelve. While she may have shown bravery during training when she spit on Pilate, at heart, she's just a scared, innocent, naive kid. Looking at her, Hana can't imagine that she has a single mean bone in her body. She wouldn't try to poison her. She couldn't. She's a kid, after all. Just a kid.

So, she takes the drink and sips it slowly, smiling widely at the girl despite the putrid taste the water has when it slides down her throat.

"Mmmmm, tastes good," Hana lies.

Marguerite smiles back at her for the first time since she's met. Hana thinks its progress in their relationship, but Marguerite knows better. She knows that she's got Hana duped.

 _What's the worst that a little, innocent, cute twelve-year-old can do?_

A lot more than just lie, that is.

* * *

 _Eliora Abraham, 16._

 _District Nine Female._

* * *

She never thought she'd be saying this, but her and Terra are actually getting along.

Their relationship has had a total 360 ever since their little heart-to-heart on the cliff's edge. Before, Eliora hated Terra. Hated. She had killed Lennox after all, or at least was one of the reasons why Eliora's district partner was dead. However, the only thing she hated more than her former ally was the thought of being without any allies. That's why she was following her around. And in the end, it worked out to both of their advantages.

Maybe the universe doesn't hate Eliora as much as she thought it did.

This thought is confirmed one night when they're talking through the black desert, both their stomachs rumbling from hunger. Neither of them has had anything to eat in days, and Eliora's beginning to feel grumpy again. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, a blinking light appears in the sky.

Eliora sees it first, and points up to the blinking red dot sailing toward them. She half thinks she's imagining things, the arena playing tricks on her mind.

"What's that?" she asks.

Terra squints her eyes into small slits, glancing up at the blackened sky. "Huh?"

"That light."

"I don't see a light."

Eliora points again. "It's right there."

"Oh."

Neither of them really knows what it is, watching silently as it decends toward them. But then when it's fiteen feet away, Terra lets out a happy shreik and starts to jump up and down.

"I think it's a sponsor gift!" she exclaims.

Eliora's eyes widen. _A sponsor gift? For them? People actually liked them?_

Well, Terra to be specific. She could understand how people could like Eliora. She was the classic underdog after all, and was sure to have some fans out there rooting for her. On the other hand, no one could possibly like Terra. She basically revealed to all of Panem that she killed a baby because she was angry. After that, Eliora couldn't imagine would like her. _So the sponsor gift must be for her!_ Maybe it was from Tizrah, her girlfriend. That would be so sweet. Totally something Tizrah would do. Maybe she banded the whole district together to buy her something! That would be the best present ever.

When the parachute lands in Terra's hands, Eliora quickly reaches over and snatches the note off of the basket.

"Hey!" Terra exclaims, reaching her arm out to grab back the note. "That was for me!"

"How do you know?" Eliora snaps, rolling her eyes. Her ally must be dumb to think people actually liked her. "It's probably for me."

Well, they were almost getting along.

"I'm sure it was for me. My mentor said if I made it far enough she'd get her and the other victors to sponsor me."

Eliora rolls her eyes again. "That sounds like a lie your mentor told you to motivate you and give you something to live for. There's no way that's actually for you."

And with that, Terra swiftly reaches over and grabs the note from Eliora's hand, plucking it out of her fingers faster than she can blink her eyes.

"Well, there's only one way to find out!" Terra chimes, then opens the notecard. Eliora attempts to lean over to see whose name is on it, but when she does, Terra moves the card away, shielding it's words from her.

Squinting her eyes, she reads the card in the dim light. Then, a second later, her face lights up.

"See, it says Terra at the top!" the girl from Seven exclaims proudly, extending the card out to give Eliora a peak.

Eliora curls her nose up in disgust, then snatches the card back. Leaning in, she reads the card for herself.

GOOD JOB TERRA! UP IN MY SUITE PEOPLE TALK OF YOU FOREVER! THEY FIGURE YOU'RE TO WIN! HERE'S 4 EARTH'S BEST CALTHA BREAD LOAVES! HOPEFULLY IN A FORTNIGHT YOU'LL FIND VICTORY!

-DAFFODIL

Eliora gawks at the note. Yet, it's not just because she's jealous that it's for Terra and not her. No. It's one of the strangest things she's ever read. Is this how people talk in Seven? she wonders.

"What's a Caltha bread loaf?" Eliora asks, looking up at Terra then back at the note in confusion. "And a fortnight? Wasn't that like a type of dance before the dark ages?"

Terra shrugs. "I dunno, just give it back to me. I need to read it again."

"No, I want to read it one more time. It's so strange," Eliora mutters, pulling the note back toward her chest and clutching it tightly. This doesn't stop Terra though, who still grabs for it anyway. However, Eliora isn't letting it go this time. When Terra reaches for it, the she pulls away, and the note tears in half.

The two pieces flutter to the ground, landing in the black dirt. Yet, before Terra or Eliora can reach to grab them, a gust of wind rushes through their hair and sends the notes flying away, gone into the black sky.

"No! No!" Terra exclaims, her eyes widening in distress. She runs forward, attempting to grab at the pieces as they glide away. She's too slow though, and by the time she runs toward them they've already disappeared.

Eliora snorts. She's kind of happy that happened. Less evidence of people liking Terra better than her.

"Why are you so upset?" Eliora asks, narrowing her eyes at Terra. "It was just a note. We have the caltha bread loaves right here, whatever they are, and that's the important thing. I for one am hungry, so I'm going to dig right in—"

"I needed that though!" Terra yelps in distress, staring longingly into the direction that the two pieces of paper fluttered off into.

"For what? Validation that people like you? It's okay Terra, I like you enough."

Terra wrinkles her nose at Eliora. "No, I already know people like me. It's just—it's just—"

"It's just what?"

She shakes her head. "You know what? Never mind. I'm just hungry is all, and a bit grumpy. Let's eat."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** It's been a long time, yeah, I know. I wrote this chapter ilike 6 months ago, hated it, but now looking back it's not too bad. I've had some serious writers block over the summer and have fallen a bit "out of love" to say with fanfiction. I still want to finish this though. I hope you all haven't forgotten entirely about it._

 _College apps are kicking my butt. Yeah, I guess that's all I have to say on the matter. Life is busy, I got mono in late March, didn't get much better until May, then got a job over the summer where I was working 8 hour days, spent a month in Europe, now I'm playing field hockey again and applying to college in my free time. Fanfiction has been the last thing I've thought about. But I know there's a lot of people who care about this story so I'm going to try to finish. It might not be my best work, but I'm going to take it one chapter at a time now. Thanks everyone for supporting me and having faith in me even though I literally disappeared for a while there._

 _14th: Tyrell Taiko, District Six Male, strangled by Freyja._

 _Tyrell! He was such a unique tribute, definitely one who I've never seen before. I was very nervous to write him, as I didn't know how writing a deaf character would go, but I think I did alright in the end. I know he was a lot of people's favorites, but I couldn't see him going much further, especially considering the competition that's left. Rest in piece Tyrell, and thanks so much Plat again, for like everything. The character, help, encouragement, reviews. You rock._

 _Okay so, I think since it's been a while, I'll do a little update on where everyone is, dramatic style!_

 _ **Clay:** The dust storm separated him and his allies. He's all alone now, and has no intention of meeting back up with Val and Hana to kill Pilate. He's scared to fight now after having a little scare with Mortimer. Will he have to come face-to-face with his former allies again and be forced to fight Pilate? Or will he succeed in hiding out for the rest of the games?_

 _ **Val:** Val has also been separated from Hana and Clay and is now in Braxton's hands, but has no intention of giving up on her quest to find Pilate and get revenge for killing Archie, scaring away Coral, and overall just being a dick to everyone. Will she be able to sweet talk Braxton into letting her go? Will she ever get her revenge on Pilate, or will she meet an end at Braxton's sword before she has a chance?_

 _ **Pilate:** His pride has been wounded after Marguerite, the smallest tribute in the games, narrowly escaped his sword. He needs to kill her to rebuild his ego, but the question is, will he ever find the sly girl again? And now, he's been knocked out by the other tribute he perceives as weak, Tyrell. Will he be able to recover his ego and kill everyone who has wronged him? Or will Val and her crew find him before he has a chance?_

 _ **Hana:** The most prepared tribute for these games has gone from on-top of the world to alone, with nothing. Marguerite appealed to Hana's weak side after she was stranded alone in the wake of the dust storm. She spared the small girl in hopes of finding information about her allies whereabouts, and has no idea Marguerite is completely playing her. Will her misplaced trust be her demise? Or will she live to reuinite with Val and Clay?_

 _ **Freyja:** Freyja killed her best friend, Sky, and ditched her former allies in order to ally with Pilate, whom she thought would provide protection for her and further her chances of winning. However, they can't stand each other, and now, Pilate's quest to restore his ego has lead them into danger time and time again. Will her and Pilate be able to work together until the end of the games? Or will their unlikely partnership come to a disastrous end?_

 _ **Sol:** Sol, with the help of Tyrell, has escaped Freyja and Pilate. However, he is still battling his addition and his biggest enemy, himself. His goal right now is to protect Luna, but if she dies, will he be able to keep finding a reason to continue on? What's up with those nightberries he still has in his pocket? _

_**Luna:** Luna is dead set on staying positive in these games. However, Tyrell just died trying to save them, and Sol didn't let her save him. Will she be able to keep staying this positive now that Tyrell's gone? And the biggest question of all: will Luna and Sol ever have to turn on each other?_

 _ **Terra:** Terra has some serious confidence issues. After accidentally killing her baby before coming to the games, she craves the attention and love she lost. Her mentor approached her with a plan to be loved by all of Panem, but what exactly is that plan? And what was up with that weird coded message?_

 _ **Eliora:** Eliora and Terra seem to be on good terms, at least for now. But with the sponsor gift Terra recieved, Eliora is beginning to become jealous again. Will the unstable girls be able to make it to the end? Or will they self-destruct before that happens?_

 _ **Braxton:** Braxton has been trying to convince himself that he's the good guy for the entire games. But after killing Coral and Gareth, he's finding that harder and harder to believe. He's spared Valentine's life in order to be a "hero", but what does he plan to do with her? And will he ever get his revenge on Clay for lying to him?_

 _ **Marguerite:** Marguerite may be the smallest tribute in these games, but she's certainly one tough cookie. She escaped Pilate and now is with Hana. Will she be able to deceive the career, or is she running on too thin a line?_

 _ **Manisha:** After killing Winnifred and Takei, Manisha is all alone, and a changed girl. She's sick of being forgotten. Will she be able to prove to Panem she's a contender? Or will she just be one more footnote in the history of the games, another forgotten tribute?_

 _ **North:** North feels no remorse for killing Mortimer. She's always been a survivor. But will karma catch up to her? Or will she be able to survive her biggest challenge yet, the games, where the rest of the competition is only getting harder and harder?_

 _Also I just realized, we have like 4 guys left and 9 girls. Whoops. Anyway, I do have another chapter written, but it's from like April so I got to go back and check it out. Hopefully I'll be able to post it sooner than this one. No more 6 month breaks._

 _paper ;)_


	39. Day VI: Holding Out for a Hero

_Day VI: Holding Out For a Hero_

* * *

 _Clay Wolfe, 18._

 _District One Male._

* * *

Morning dawns in the arena. It's his sixth day here, but it might as well have been a lifetime. It feels like he's been roaming around this barren landscape for years. His throat is dry and parched. His pale skin is cracked and red, burned by the blazing sun. Yet at this point, it just feels numb. It all feels numb.

He knows his allies are trying to find him. Or at least, Hana is. Valentine's ego is probably big enough that she truly believes she can kill Pilate all by herself, but he knows Hana is much more rational than his district partner. They need him to kill Pilate, whether they would like to admit it or not. While the two girls are strong, he knows that Hana isn't irrational enough to go into the fight against Pilate with even numbers, two versus two. They have a much higher chance of making it out alive if the three of them go in together. It's simple math.

Yet, the odds of him surviving are better if he doesn't fight at all. Period. And the fact that the storm came and split them up just proved to him that the universe was giving him a sign: don't go fight. It split them up for a reason, and unlike his allies, he's not willing to join up again.

So here he is, hiding in a car on the side of the road, hunched over in the backseat like a coward. Through the cracked glass, he can watch the blazing sun rise over the horizon, spreading its light across the blackened ground. Yet, the light never reaches the inside of the car. It stays dark in the interior, black shadows hiding his body.

He blinks, chuckling to himself slightly. It's amusing how far from golden he is now, literally hiding in the shadows. He guesses almost anyone watching would have thought he'd be the valiant knight who would march into battle against evil and the one to slay Pilate. After Hana, he did have the most votes for the predicted winner. The reason he didn't beat her in the Capitol poll was that everyone thought that his end would come in a glorious, final showdown, and he would go out like the hero everyone thought he was.

 _Hero._ He snorts. _He's no hero._

He's just a big, fat, lying coward. But at least he's going to survive.

* * *

 _Manisha Rollins, 16._

 _District Eleven Female._

* * *

It's her birthday today.

When she wakes up, there's no one there to say anything to her, congratulate her on making it another year, or at the very least, just wish her a nice day. But that's nothing new. Her parents normally are already off to work anyway, so for all of her birthdays as long as she can remember, she's always been alone. And no one at school knew her well enough to know, either. And now that Takei's gone, the tradition of no one knowing survives another year.

She sits up, prying her body off of the cold, concrete floor of the building she's been sheltered up in for the past day. She notices the lack of warmth right away: it's her first night sleeping without Takei by her side. Well, she should just say just her first night, not her first night sleeping. After what happened, every time she closes her eyes, she sees the bloody body of Takei, her knife lodged right through his chest. She didn't sleep a wink last night. She doubts she'll be ever to sleep again.

But she doesn't regret it. Actually, it's one of the few things in her life she doesn't regret.

She walks outside the building, half expecting to see a little parcel with her name on it from a sponsor. They have to know it's her birthday back in the Capitol after she was reaped, all her information was released to the public, after all. Maybe someone would take pity on her and send her a gift. Just something. A little note, even.

Yet, there's nothing. She curses herself for getting her hopes up because of course, no one cares about her. No one ever has, and no one ever will. After she killed Takei, her more likable and personable district partner, they probably all hate her even more.

It's not like she's winning, anyway. She may have killed Takei, but she had the element of surprise on her hand. Next time she won't and her opponent will be stronger, smarter, and faster. It's only a matter of time.

But they at least could have pretended like they cared. She killed someone, after all, gave them a show. She finally stood up for herself. Had some character development. And what do they give her for thanks?

Nothing.

"Whatever," she mutters, kicking a rock by her feet. "Happy Sweet Sixteen, Manisha. Another year of being forgotten, another year of being alone."

At least it will all be over soon.

* * *

 _Braxton Busbee, 16._

 _District Ten Male._

* * *

He hums softly as he listens to Valentine tell him how he's going to be the nicest tribute to ever win these games.

"Braxton, you know, I think it was just so heroic of you to save me and not take the easy way out. Obviously, killing me would have made your job of winning easier, especially since I'm a career, but I really, truly, and honestly think you did the right thing there. It really shows the inner workings of your character and that you're not letting the games change who you are. It was the valiant thing to do not to kill me defenseless like that, and at least let me have a fighting chance again. It's quite chivalrous."

Braxton smiles bashfully, his cheeks flushing red. It feels so good for someone else to give him that validation he's always desired. His own pride blinds him from seeing the truth of the matter: Valentine will do or say anything to get free. Anyone but him could see her poorly concealed, blatant lies, and that she was playing him like a fiddle. But perception is reality, and at that point in time, he couldn't help but eat her lies up. They were exactly the words his ears yearned to hear.

"Go on," he murmurs, flicking his fingers at the tied-up girl. "I like this game."

Braxton closes his eyes, waiting for Valentine's too-good-to-be-true words to flood into his ears and fill his mind with images of him as a valiant hero, standing victorious at the end of it all. In doing so, he fails to see her annoyed eye-roll or sense her vexed scoff.

All he hears are her words, sweet as honey in his ears.

"Don't you want revenge on the person who wronged you?" she asks, and he can practically feel himself salivating at the idea, drooling like a desperate and starved puppy dog who hasn't eaten in days. "Don't you want to be the hero everyone thinks you are and kill that big, bad, lying career? "

"Yes," he whispers, too silent for Valentine to hear. "Yes."

"Clay was wrong. Clay betrayed you. But you can make it right. If you let me go, we can kill him together, Braxton. I'll be your loyal sidekick. Clay wronged me too, I hold no district-ties to him. If you let me go, I'll help you. The Capitol will adore us, they'll adore you, after we kill that monster."

He nods his head, opening his eyes.

"Yes, yes."

"Just let me go, okay? Once you do that, everything will be history. Can't you hear the roaring crowds screaming your name once you kill him, once you win? Braxttttooooonnnnn! Braxxxttooonnn!"

He can hear them. He can see them. Now, all that's left is for him to let Valentine go. He stands to his feet, moving across the charred ground like a hypnotized snake, eyes clouded with the lust of victory.

Meanwhile, Valentine smiles as Braxton slowly approaches, not at all surprised that her tactics were so effective. She has visualized this moment herself a million times, only it's Pilate or her sister's murderer she's killing, not Clay. All she had to do was change the name to project her own fantasies onto Braxton. It was almost too easy.

Braxton cuts the rope, and she jumps forward. She almost falls back on the ground due to her legs, which are completely numb from sitting in the same position for over a day, but her excellent agility allows her to catch her balance.

Braxton watches her, nodding his head. She smiles at him as the blood flows back to her legs, trying to bide time. But Braxton is still as hypnotized as ever, blind to everything else around him except for his desire to kill Clay and be the heroic victor Valentine told him he'd be.

He doesn't see as she grabs the machete from behind him, the only thing on his mind the fact that he'll finally be the hero he wants everyone to see him as—the Capitolites, his friends, and most importantly, his family.

As Valentine slices his head off in one, swooping clean flick of her arm, he sees a million flashing stars in a black sky. It's like he's a celebrity, poised on a stage as the paparazzi scramble to take pictures of him. He dies smiling, his eyes glazed over with false hope, his lips twisted into a large grin.

He looks happy for the first time in years, but he dies no hero.

* * *

 _Marguerite Thorne, 12._

 _District Ten Female._

* * *

Jimsonweed is not something they use in District Ten to add "extra flavor to their water". She can't believe the career everyone was hailing to be the smartest to ever play the games fell for that lie.

Jimsonweed is indeed only native to District Ten, and maybe District Eleven, which is why she knew the career wouldn't recognize it. Still, didn't she ever learn not to trust strangers, especially in the Hunger Games? Jimsonweed isn't used for flavor; instead, it's a drug used for hallucinations, which in large doses, can cause severe nausea and dehydration.

And Marguerite dropped a whole flower in there. She watched the career drink all of it, then eat the flower, which Marguerite told her was used to for quick hydration, another lie.

Marguerite wonders how the career is doing now. It's been about twelve hours since she bolted, taking all of Hana's supplies while she was lost in some daze, unable to catch Marguerite as she scurried away. Hana didn't have much, only two canteens of water and a bit of food, but it was more than Marguerite had, which was nothing at all. In this harsh climate, she doubts the career will survive long without water, especially after she comes down from the high of the drug.

Everyone who underestimated her is probably surprised now. She evaded the two strongest tributes in the games and lived to tell the tale.

She'll make people regret not betting on her.

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

 _What in the world did that girl do to her?_

Everything from the past twelve hours is all one big blur. There was a girl. She was tiny, one of the smallest little things she's ever seen. Hana remembers her crying: she spared her life in exchange for information. But then after that, everything mixes together, like one big, fuzzy dream.

Or rather, nightmare.

She thinks she saw things last night. Her dead brother. Her girlfriend. Her parents. They came to her in a haze, but when she reached out to touch them, they were there. They were real. She had run her coarse fingers down their soft clothing, crying.

They couldn't have been real though. Her brother is dead. Her parents and girlfriend are back at home. But, she swears, they were here. They were real.

 _Did that girl with the wide, big crying eyes even exist, or was she part of Hana's imagination too?_

She doesn't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. Why hasn't she won yet? Where is her shiny crown? Why did she trust that girl? Why didn't she kill her like she was trained to?

All she knows now is that she can't stop puking, and all her supplies are gone. Everything she's eaten in the past three days has come up, and no matter what she does, she can't keep it down. And now, there's nothing left inside her. When she heaves all that comes up is a dark yellow bile. Her body feels weak. The girl is gone.

Why isn't she stronger? She trained for years – she gave up her entire life for this. Why is she puking? Why can't she remember what happened? She planned for every possible scenario. Everyone one. So why is this happening?

Maybe it's because the idea of losing wasn't possible. In every scenario she ran through her mind, even the ones where things went a little off, she always managed to come out victorious. She can't lose. She can't die. She's Hana Marko, and she's immortal. She'll never die. She's worked harder than anyone else here, she can't –

She won't. She's not going to die. But –

She can't hear herself think, her head is pounding so much. So, she closes her eyes, and focuses all her reminaing energy inwards, toward her brain. What would she do if she lost her allies and was all alone?

Think, Hana, think.

She pukes again, but it's not really puking, because nothing is coming out. Dry-heaving is a much better term.

Think. Think.

She'd go to the cornucopia. That's where all the tributes congregate. There's 12 of them left—one tribute must be there. There's a 2/11 odds it's Clay or Valentine. Really, as long as it's not Pilate or Freyja, she should be good.

She tries to stand, but her legs buckle underneath her and she falls. She feels weaker than a baby doe. She shouldn't have trusted that girl. She shouldn't have let her guard down.

But she did.

She stands again, and takes a step. It's small, no more than a few inches. But it's progress.

Hana has trained her whole life for this; she's not going to give up. She can fix this. She can't lose.

 _But what if she already has?_

* * *

 _Terra McIntosh, 18._

 _District Seven Female._

* * *

Her only chance at escape is now gone.

She thinks about all the money Daffodil must have spent on that sponsor gift. A loaf of bread doesn't run cheap, even for a victor. She probably pooled all her savings together with the other rebellious victors – _all for what? For Terra to fuck it up, like she always does?_

Daffodil should have never trusted her to carry out such an important mission. Her mentor put too much faith in her. She's just a massive fuck up, an accident waiting to happen. She accidentally killed her son, accidentally ripped the note, and accidentally messed up Daffodil's plan to start another rebellion. Next thing she knows, she's going to accidentally kill Eliora, her newfound ally, or worse, accidentally kill herself.

She looks over to the redheaded girl beside her, frowning. In the past, she would have blamed Eliora for ripping the note. She used to blame everyone but herself. It was her son's fault he got killed, her sister-in-law who made her feel like shit, her ex-boyfriends fault for leaving when she was pregnant. But these games have started to have a weird effect on her. Maybe it's the fact that death is in her near future and she needs to make a case for herself to get into heaven after all the shitty things she's done, but she has actually started to own up to her own actions. Accepting blame isn't as scary as it once was.

She might be a massive-fuck up, but at least she's trying to better herself.

"Eliora?" Terra murmurs, looking up at her ally.

"Yeah?"

"There's something I need to tell you."

"What?" her ally barks, her temperament suddenly changing. "Are you keeping secrets from me?"

Terra's eyes suddenly widen. _You know what? Maybe she shouldn't tell her ally. She can figure this out herself, right? Eliora is too paranoid; Eliora doesn't need to know. She'll just ruin it. She's so unpredictable that she might just go tell the Capitol, then they'll come send mutts to kill her, and Daffodil will die too, and the whole plan will be accidentally blown up because she's such a-_

"Terra..."

 _Fuck it, she's just going to tell her._ _She's probably going to die either way._

"Are there cameras around?" Terra asks suddenly, her eyes fluttering about the barren landscape.

"Terra, there's always cameras around. Just tell me. The Capitol already knows all your secrets anyway."

"No, this is something I don't want everyone to know. This is something that needs to stay between you and me."

Eliora's eyebrow suddenly perks up, her interest piqued. The redheaded girl looks around, then leans in close. "They shouldn't be able to hear us if we talk like this," she whispers softly.

Terra nods. It's probably the best they're going to get. "Eliora . . . I need your help. That note – well, it wasn't just a note? It - "

"What? What was it?" Eliora exclaims in surprise, cutting Terra off.

"Shhh! Would you just listen for a second?"

Eliora takes a deep breath in, nodding mutely. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Anyway, the note, it was a secret message. My mentor – Daffodil – she had a plan. It was a plan that would end the games forever."

"What!?"

"Would you shut up?! Now that you know, you're a coconspirator too, so the Capitol will kill us both if they ever find out. They're already suspicious we're whispering. So be quiet. Anyway, this part I need your help for. The note was codded: Daffodil told me she'd be sending me one two days before I was going to escape."

 _Escape?_ Eliora mouths silently, her voice frozen in shock.

"We need to figure out what was in that note, because Daffodil told me she'd only be able to pool enough money together to get one message to me. And I need you to help me."

" _Me?_ Help _you?_ " Eliora gawks, her voice shaking almost as much as her body. "Why?"

"Because you saw the note too. Maybe together we can remember the words and figure out the code."

Eliora buries her head in her hands, completely overwhelmed.

 _Well, she wanted to know the truth. And now she does._

Terra steps back, sighing. "Sorry - I know it's a lot of information at once. Maybe I shouldn't have told you. I should have just let it go and forgotten about it."

Eliora looks up, shaking her head back and forth. "No, no," she mutters. "I'm glad you told me. Finally, someone's honest with me. Just . . . why did you agree to do it in the first place? It's so dangerous. You have a better shot at winning then doing . . . well . . . whatever your mentor has planned. And do you even know what the plan is?"

Terra leans back in again. "No, she told me it was too risky to tell me until I actually escaped, because if the Capitol caught me while I was in the arena, she said the less I knew the better."

"Well, there's only one way to find out, I guess. We got to figure that note out."

She cracks a weak smile, and Terra nods.

Eliora smirks. "So, what's Caltha bread?"

* * *

 _A/N: Okay it's been like a month. But still shorter than last time, right?_

 _13th: Braxton Busbee, District 10 Male, beheaded by Valentine Halloway._

 _Braxton was fun! He was orginally supposed to die in the bloodbath but then I was like he was way too fun to kill there. So I gave him a villian arc, where he ended up killing all these people whilist trying to convince himself he wasn't a killer. LOL. Anyway, it was him trying to convince himself that he wasn't the bad guy that screwed him over in the end, as Valentine, well, is a lot more decisive and knows what she wants. But he had a good run! Thanks for Braxton, he was a great character who was super easy to arc and explore morality, but I just couldn't see him winning, especially with the great cast we still have._

 _And with that being said, yeah, we're halfway done with the games numbers wise! F12! But like, I promise it won't be another 6 days in the arena, with two chapters a day, etc. I don't have that writing endurance anymore. In my original plans for this story, it was going to be looonnggg. Like, 13-14 days in the arena. It was an epic. But life gets in the way, I've axed those plans and switched them out for some shorter ones. But the ending is still going to be awesome. I promise. We're going out with a bang._

 _See you next time, I hope soon! College apps are at a height right now, but hopefully after Nov/Dec they'll die down again and I can try to finish this thing for real._

 _paper :)_


	40. Day VII: Master Trackers

_Day VII: Master Trackers_

* * *

 _Hana Marko, 18._

 _District Two Female._

* * *

After what feels like hours of stumbling across the barren black desert, she finally finds something: a faint outline of a footprint in the grainy sand. She decides after examining it briefly that it most likely belongs to another male tribute due to its sheer size alone. A few days ago, she would have given it a bit for effort, maybe tried to recall what foot size she approximated each tribute to have then broken it down further from there; however, now she barely has the energy to walk. All the calculations she was once able to do feel like more energy than it's worth.

So instead, she runs through a rudimentary list of all the male tributes left in the game. First, there's Pilate, her temperamental district partner, then Clay, her lost ally, and finally Solomon. But she remembers vaguely that the boy from Five was so malnourished that the massive footprint absolutely could not be his. So that leaves the former two.

Despite her fuzzy mental state, she's still able to weigh her options carefully. It's a fifty-fifty shot of running into either her ally, who most likely has supplies, including food and water, which she desperately needs right now or Pilate, who'd kill her in her current state with ease.

It appalls her that her chances of death are now diminished to the simple odds of flipping a coin. _And if it's Clay she finds and he discovers that she was scammed by a twelve-year-old, would he call the alliance off and attempt to kill her too? Are the odds of her dying greater than a coin toss?_ Probably.

Yet, she knows if she doesn't find someone – or supplies soon – she's done for. She estimates she has a day or two left before she passes out from dehydration, then what? Someone will either come along and kill her or she'll rot to death out in this barren landscape herself.

The choice is obvious: she follows the tracks and hopes for the best.

It disgusts her that after all she's done to prepare for these games, her fate is in the hands of sheer dumb luck.

* * *

 _Pilate Antoni, 18._

 _District Two Male._

* * *

Pilate has decided that he's done being the nice guy.

It's not like he _was_ ever the nice guy: not recently, at least. He's obviously the nastiest career there ever was; he's mean, he's strong, and he's going to win. Obviously.

What he means to say is that he's done playing with his food. For the first six days of the games, he's gone easy on his competitors. If he wasn't going easy, there's no way that little blind rat from Six or the little snake from Eleven (Marguerite's her name, he _hates_ that he knows that. She's too weak to be worth it; it's a waste of his time.) would have gotten away. He's giving the Capitol a show, making them think they have a slight chance to add a dash of suspense. He doesn't want to run away with the victory and make it too obvious that no one else here even holds a candle to his superior abilities. That'd be boring for the viewers and for him. He's a performer at heart, a musician, so he knows how to put on a good show.

"Freyja, I've decided it's time to kill that little snake from Ten," he declares suddenly.

The redheaded girl doesn't even look up at him, continuing to peck impishly at her breakfast of stale bread. Like almost everything she does, it causes anger to bubble up inside him. Just give him a damn response. He deserves it, after all. He isn't just nothing. _He's going to be the victor of these games! The least she could do is acknowledge him!_

He stomps his foot against the black sand, causing a dark cloud to rise around his boot. Freyja coughs but still doesn't look up. With a huff of frustration that even that didn't make her irritated, Pilate stomps over to where he put his bag for the night – beside the trunk of a great, leafless burnt-out oak tree. He slings it over his shoulder then grabs Valentine's cat claws, which are his favorite new toy. He still hasn't gotten a sword, which upsets him immensely, as there are obviously plenty of people rooting for him, so it doesn't make sense why no one is sponsoring him.

It's because they want a good show, obviously. If he got his desired weapon, no one else would stand a chance. Again, it's just to build suspense. That's it. Suspense.

Obviously.

"I think we should split for a day or two," Pilate continues, despite her lack of response. "I'm obviously faster on my feet than you, and if I'm going to catch that rat, I need to be quick. You just slow me down. Plus, you're loud since you're so out of shape. Your footsteps are too heavy and you can hear them from the other side of the arena. I can't have you ruining my hunt and scaring the rat away. But once I kill her, let's meet right back at this tree, and then we can wait for Valentine to come and try to take back her little claws."

He raises an eyebrow to see if even this will get a rise out of her. To his delight, it finally does.

She whips around to face him, dismay written all over her scrunched-up face. "What!? Split up!? And what are you saying, I'm way faster than you, and did you just call me fat? I can't - "

"Don't be so upset, Freyja, I'm only telling you the truth," he replies coyly. "If the reason you don't want me to leave is that you're scared of the careers coming and finding you before I get back - "

"I'm not. I can take them."

"Good," he coos. "Then you shouldn't have anything to worry about."

And with that, he turns and leaves before she has a chance to reply with a witty quip. He wants to have the last word, as always.

"Wait, dumbass, when are you going to be back?" she calls after him. He growls. She has too quick of a tongue.

"When I kill her."

"But that could be two weeks from now, idiot!"

"Give me five hours."

Five hours. That's more than enough time.

* * *

 _Luna Nguyen, 17._

 _District Five Female._

* * *

She's never going to forgive her brother for what he did.

Ever since Tyrell died, they've treaded along in silence. Solomon has tried to console her – to tell her it's okay, there was nothing she could do, that it was Tyrell's choice to come back – but she doesn't want to hear it. The only thing she wants to hear is her brother's apology, but she knows that's the one thing he's not going to ever say.

Together, they could have saved him. She knows Freyja is practically a career, but they knocked Pilate out cold with their teamwork. They could have easily killed Freyja too if they had just tried.

But Solomon hadn't even given her the chance. He had just looked at her with cold, calculating, and emotionless eyes as he tore her away from doing what she knew was right. At that moment, which was the split-second Tyrell's cannon sounded, she looked right into her brother's dark eyes, expecting to see some sort of emotion. Anything. Sadness, anger or at the least, sheer terror. But she saw nothing. When she looked into his eyes, it was like looking into a blank, bottomless abyss of darkness. It scared her perhaps more than the fact that they had narrowly escaped death.

He looked evil.

 _No, her brother isn't evil,_ she silently tells herself as they tread onward. _He's sad Tyrell's dead. He has to be. Even though he and Tyrell didn't get along the best, her brother had to at least feel something when he ruthlessly pulled her away from the dying boy. He's human after all. He's empathetic. He cares about others. He had to have at least hesitated on the decision, even just a little bit._

Yet, the reality is, her brother didn't hesitate for a second on whether or not to try to save Tyrell. He didn't care what happened to the boy. In actuality, all he cared about was Luna. His obsession with saving her has become compulsive. He's literally made it his purpose in life to protect her, at all costs, including the price of his humanity. She knows he'll do anything to make sure she's the one leaving the arena alive, even if it means -

She shutters again. That sentence is one that's better left unfinished.

It saddens her to think of what her brother has become. Like always, she hopes that she is wrong about him, but as usual, she knows she's right.

* * *

 _North Brier, 14._

 _District Twelve Female._

* * *

For North, life in the arena really hasn't been much different from life in District Twelve.

Ever since Mortimer died, she's reverted to her same, lonesome ways. Losing Mortimer didn't crush her like it would have crushed other tributes. Unlike him, she was never really attached. So many people have permanently left her life, whether they actually chose to leave, like her father, or died like her mother, that she's learned to not care about anyone but herself if she doesn't want to get hurt.

She never had a house to call her own back in Twelve, so waking up without a roof over her head isn't really something shockingly new. And her daily routine that consisted of finding food, water, and shelter is the same too: in the arena, she wakes up, and her only goal is to make sure she's alive to wake up the next day, then the next. Here, she's been able to find a camp near a nice, uncontaminated stream. There are a few berries here that she recognizes as edible from back at home. In District Twelve, most of her food came from foraging or stealing. Again, the arena is no different in that regard.

It's been a quiet few days. The careers haven't found her hiding place, and no tribute has stumbled randomly upon her either. Thankfully, the gamemakers still think she's interesting enough to not send mutts after quite yet, so she hasn't run into any trouble with them, either. And for the basics of surviving, she uses her common sense. It's worked so far.

But she's getting a bit restless: being alone, with no action whatsoever, has its downsides. She's able to survive by herself with no trouble, that's true, but with Mortimer gone, there's no one to make laugh or joke around with. Her days are just kind of bleh. A little part of her wants another tribute to find her so she can cause some drama.

It might be a little stupid, but hey, she's no District Three genius.

At about noon, she decides she's hungry and walks across a marshy swamp. The water here, she learned two days ago, is radioactive, and if she steps in it it'll burn her skin, but there are berries here she can eat. She hops across a few rocks, making sure the tips of her shoes don't touch the water lapping against the stones. Eventually, she comes to the other side of the marsh, where a few thorny bushes lie, a dozen or so red berries adorning their branches. There's probably only enough left for today, which means tomorrow she's going to have to find a new source of food. That probably means stealing from another tribute, which she doesn't mind. She's been a thief her whole life.

As she picks the berries a few thorns prick her skin, drawing blood. She wipes it on her dirty leggings, smearing parts of them red. She continues to pick the berries, but then something catches her eye. A ripped white sheet of paper flutters in the wind, pierced by the thorn of one of the bushes.

She quickly grabs it, excited to have finally found something of interest after a boring few days. But her excitement soon fades when she realizes there's writing on the paper: writing she can't read. The only word she recognizes is Terra: it's the name she saw pop up on the screen when she was watching the private session scores get announced a week or so ago. She closes her eyes and tries to picture the girl whose name it belongs to in her head, but she can't quite remember. Again, she's no District Three genius.

But still, this paper could be useful. She stuffs it in her back pocket and continues on.

* * *

 _Manisha Rollins, 16._

 _District Eleven Female._

* * *

From her hiding spot way up in the crumbling building, she feels safe, almost. The rest of the games feel distant; they're happening way down on the ground, while she is floating up in the sky, like a bird, out of the other tribute's sights and minds. For one of the first times in her life, she's thankful she's been forgotten. Unlike tributes who have beef with each other and are looking to settle a score or threats who the careers are constantly on the hunt for, no one is looking for her. The only people she mattered to in the slightest – Takei and Winnifred – are gone. Their memories have been erased. She's good as forgotten.

And maybe . . . that's a good thing.

From up high, she's able to watch the games as a sort of spectator. She can sort of pretend as if she's back at home, watching the games on a remote television screen. It's basically the same: she's alone in a room (her parents were always too busy to watch), and removed from the action.

 _If only she had popcorn_ , she chuckles silently to herself. It's really not that funny of a joke. But lately, she thinks it's because she hasn't talked to another human being in numerous days, all her jokes have been funny. _Especially_ the bad ones.

From up high in the building she sees a small, dark figure sitting on a tree. The figure is too far away to see exactly who it is, but considering all the people left, she's guessing it's one of the young ones by their size. Perhaps North or Marguerite, or maybe even Luna. But that wouldn't make sense – she'd have Solomon with her, obviously. For a moment, Manisha wonders what it would be like to have a sibling, but then dismisses the thought. It makes her sad to think that once she dies, her parents won't have any other kids to take care of them as they grow older.

But they didn't take care of her when she was younger, so maybe it's just karma.

She giggles. That was funny.

On the other side of the desert, she sees two other figures who she's been watching for days. By now she's deduced it's the two older outer-district girls from Nine and Seven. It was strange. She had watched them from afar during training and deduced that they couldn't stand each other. Why were they allies now?

But of course, as a spectator, she doesn't know the whole story. She's only seen bits and pieces of it. She wonders how they made up, and if they fought often. From their mannerisms that she picked up on during training, she guesses that they must have had an explosive fight or two. She's seriously surprised their still alive.

They don't really do much. She's been watching them for a few days, and they just kind of sit and wait... for something. She wonders what they're waiting for – if it's the same thing as her. Are they also resigned to their deaths, just as she is? Are they just sitting ducks waiting for a career to come and take them out?

She'll never know.

With that, her attention flicks back to the small girl sitting in the tree. Suddenly, another figure approaches out of nowhere. He's much bigger. _Must be Pilate_ , she thinks. The girl in the tree also senses him and climbs higher.

Manisha has no idea this exact scene happened just a few days earlier. _How could she?_ At the time, she was too caught up in her own drama to watch others. She also doesn't know that this time, something is different. This time, the boy has a plan.

They seem to be chatting for a while, which Manisha thinks is rather odd. Then, a second later, the boy begins to back away from the tree. Once he's about 50 or so meters away, he stops. Manisha narrows her eyes, again thinking this whole scene is strange. _Why didn't he just climb up and kill her? Why is he backing away?_

A second later, the boy breaks into a sprint, flying as fast as he can back toward the tree. Manisha expects that the boy is getting a running start so he can leap higher into the air. It's basic physics. But to her surprise, instead of leaping into the tree's branches, he just rams right into the tree.

Then, a second later, the girl is falling through the air. Before she even hits the ground, the boy, with one clean swoop of a shiny sword, slices her head off.

Manisha squeals shrilly and looks away, horrified.

A second later a cannon sounds: sharp, decisive and final.

She's glad that buildings are sturdier than trees because if that boy wants to come and kill her, using sheer force to knock her down won't do the trick. She's glad she's up here, and not in that tree.

But she knows eventually she'll have to come down. She can't be forgotten about forever.

* * *

 _Freyja Abbott, 18._

 _District Three Female._

* * *

As promised, Pilate's back in less than five hours. Two hours and fifty-one minutes, to be exact, but she was only counting to prove him wrong. It's not like she was scared he wouldn't come back. No, she's a strong girl who can fend for herself just fine, even without a weapon. She admits the thought of a career finding her in the short time Pilate was gone did cross her mind, but only briefly. She's trained for this, and she's pretty sure she has the most kills out of anyone still left in these games at a whopping three: Sky, Archie, and Tyrell. She's doing just fine for herself.

However, having Pilate around does provide her an ample security blanket if something were to go wrong, so when she sees him trotting back up the hill, she breathes a massive sigh of relief. She may hate the guy, but right now, he's her shield. Sticking with him is her ticket to victory.

It's like her father always said: keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.

And her and Pilate have grown pretty close over the past week or so. While they bicker constantly, she appreciates the company. Their fighting keeps her mind off other things, like the constant stench of death in the air or the fact that she killed her best friend, Sky. She wouldn't quite say she and Pilate are friends yet, but they're certainly not enemies either. More like frenemies. While it surprises her to say this, she does care for the douchebag, at least a little bit. There's something loveable about the way he's obviously overcompensating for his lack of confidence. She likes to toy with him. It's fun.

As Pilate nears, the scent of death grows stronger. She scrunches his nose in disgust as she spots the severed head of Marguerite dangling from his bloody hands.

"Why do you have _that_?" she spits, pointing to Marguerite's head.

"It's a trophy."

She scoffs. "Didn't you ever learn to respect the dead? Or just some basic manners?"

"Well, she wasn't respectful to me when she was living, so I'm not going to be respectful to her when she's dead. I plan to take her head home as a token and hang it up above the fireplace in my new house in the victor's village, similar to how hunters hang their prized kills above their mantels."

Freyja just rolls her eyes, stifling a laugh. She shouldn't be laughing about it, it's actually really disturbing, but she can't help herself. Sometimes he could just be so ridiculous and over the top.

Pilate frowns back at her. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," she chortles.

"Tell me!" he demands.

"I just remembered how silly your name was, again," she giggles. "Like who would name their child after an exercise rich, skinny moms do so they can drink an extra glass of wine?"

His nostrils flare, and she bursts out in laughter. Here they go again.

It's hard not to love him, in a weird, twisted sort of way.

* * *

 **A/N:** Happy thanksgiving everyone! I had a bit of time to write today since for once we didn't travel so here's a chapter! I've written a bit of the next one too, so hopefully you'll get an update in two or so weeks, especially since college apps are winding down. I got into college too, but it's not my first choice, so I'm still waiting. I was thinking today that I was a freshman when I first started writing Crimson, and now I'm into college somewhere. Time has flown and it's just crazy how long I've been here and how much I've written, almost 400,000 words at this point. I'm thankful for the confidence writing these two stories has given me, and to all of you, whether you submitted, reviewed, or even just read a chapter or two and liked what you saw. While writing has taken the backburner in my life right now, these stories mean so much to me. I can't wait to show you guys my plans for the rest of it.

11th: Marguerite Thorn, D10 Female, killed by Pilate.

I wanted a bit of a different perspective on an action scene, so I had the very observant Manisha narrate it! Idk if it worked well, but I definitely wanted to mix it up for a death, especially since we've already seen a bunch of antagonistic exchanges from Pilate and Marguerite already that I didn't think we needed another one. But lets be real: Marguerite survived way too long. She was 12 for god sakes, and she was able to use her wits to go toe-to-toe with arguablely the two strongest tributes in the game, Hana and Pilate! But I couldn't see a way she won, since she was all mental and is literally 4 feet tall so I couldn't see her being strong enough to kill anyone without poison or anything. It was her time. Her arc played out, she proved to everyone she was stronger than she thought, and definitely showed that twelve year olds can compete too! But for real, it was only time before her slightly impulsive actions got the best of her. There was no way she could beat Pilate again. But I loved writing her, she was definitely one of the most unique tributes I've ever gotten, from her tiny height, her fearlessness to stand up to the careers, to the interesting, very adult-like way she spoke despite her age. Kyrstal Fox, thanks for the gem! She'll be missed. I always messed up spelling her last name though. Was is thorne or thorn? I forget.

And with that, we're headed to day 8 next! Expect a very important announcement and some interesting (and long awaited) meet ups. Anyone have any guesses for what tributes will cross paths?

find out next time on blackened, with your favorite storyteller (or not so favorite, probably),

paper :)


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